Through the Darkness Unescapable
by chryseis dione
Summary: The Alkallabeth was written as a history, but histories rarely reveal the whole truth. What was the truth behind the life of Tar Miriel, last queen of Numenor?
1. The Tree

Author's Note: This is my first work of Tolkien fanfiction. If I have any inconsistencies in dates or details, please let me know. It will be a work in progress, so I am open to any comments or criticism to help me improve this. I will continue to post new chapters as soon as they are ready. Thanks!  
  
THROUGH THE DARKNESS UNESCAPABLE  
  
"It reminds me of Númenor," said Faramir, and wondered to hear himself speak.  
  
"Of Númenor?" said Éowyn.  
  
"Yes," said Faramir, "of the land of Westernesse that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green landscape above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it."  
  
-"The Return of the King"  
  
Part One: Daughter of Númenor  
  
"The Tree"  
  
Armenelos  
  
3255, Second Age  
  
Míriel always woke early. The night before, she hadn't been able to fall asleep. When she had, her dreams were dark and terrible. It had been months since she had gotten a good night's sleep. She suspected that it was beginning to show, but no one around was brave enough to tell her. Only her father dared, and even then he would only mention in that soft, deep voice of his that she needed to get more rest or she would collapse. The worry still kept her awake, though, no matter how much she tried to sleep. Sometimes it seemed as if an endless sea of troubles threatening to overtake her at any moment. Her father's waning health, the growing threat of darkness in the east, and all the while, the King's Men undermining the royal authority… It was getting harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning, despite the fact that sleep brought no more comfort.  
  
Sliding out of bed, Míriel dressed quickly and drifted over to her desk. There were endless stacks of papers, all coming in for royal perusal. For several months now, she had been the acting monarch of Númenor, overseeing its business and handling all the truly tedious work. Her father's health had begun to decline lately, something that worried everyone amongst the Elf-Friends. It was only during Tar-Palantir's rule that Númenor had been rescued from the shadow of pride and greed that had nearly overtaken it. The King's Men still opposed them, but Míriel hoped that she and her descendants could still save her isle.  
  
It seemed to her that there were even more papers now than there had been last night, which meant an aide or servant must have deposited the more important documents on her desk in the middle of the night. If they had such importance, she knew that she was obligated to look through them. Shuffling through them, her heart sank. Why couldn't anyone ever bear good news to Armenelos? There were reports of incidents like the unrest in Hyarrostar, caused by the King's Men, as well as the growing danger of the darkness on Middle Earth. Frustrated, she let the papers fall back onto the desk. That was enough bad news for this morning.  
  
The daughter of the king slipped out of her room and walked a short way to another door along the corridor. As quietly as she could, she pushed it open and gazed around the room, only to find that it was empty. Her face betrayed no change of emotion. She hadn't expected her father to be asleep now, either. Trouble sleeping was something they had both started to share. Turning around, she headed down the corridor, bound for the court of the kings.  
  
Tar-Palantir might have been growing old and weary, but he refused to be a captive within cold, lifeless stone walls. He had his gardening tools spread out around him and was busily patting down the dirt around a small plant with wide green leaves. Footsteps clattered on the path and he heard an amused voice come from behind him. "Your head gardener's heart will likely stop when he sees this."  
  
"And so will my doctor's," he added with a slight chuckle. "But seeing as my doctor wouldn't have me leave my bed and the gardener is fixated on having everything neat, organized and perfectly in patterns, I am not so inclined to be sorry." He went to climb to his feet, and was immediately assisted by his daughter. "Good morning, Míriel."  
  
"Good morning, Father," she greeted him, giving him a kiss on the cheek. Then, she stood back to appraise his work. "No matter what your gardener or your doctor thinks, it looks lovely in my opinion." Slowly, the woman's eyes went from the small shade-plants to the tree, which was the center of this miniature garden in the King's Court.  
  
"Gardens aren't meant to be in an exact pattern and follow rules," Palantir was saying aloud, more to himself than to Míriel. "Things grow as they will, not matter how hard you try to prune or shape them." He gave a slight smile to Míriel, who returned the expression.  
  
"I have heard enough of your metaphors by now to know what you mean," she remarked. Her father looked at her for a moment, and she could see the dark look of sorrow in his eyes once again, his smile fading. It was a look she hated, one that told her that he was suffering some hidden pain that he could not share. Quickly, she tried to change the subject. "I know what it means to you to see the tree blooming again. You have worked for so long to see it flower." The king frowned a bit, not in anger, but in frustration.  
  
"It is not entirely healthy yet," he muttered, carefully examining the leaves of a nearby branch. "After so many years of neglect, it will never be as glorious as it once was. Yet it is recovering, despite what our esteemed gardener swore years ago." Míriel had heard stories about a determined young king working day and night to revive the White Tree, despite the best advice of his head gardener. In his care, Nimloth had grown stronger, and the past few years had even flowered for him. She had always thought that her father must have some magic to him. Míriel told herself there must have been something of the Maia blood that remained with him, descended and diluted through the ages.  
  
The sun's light was just beginning to pour across the land, and as it climbed slowly, it lit up the court so the carving in the walls nearby and on the stepping stones along the path. Soon, there would be an army of servants, aides, body guards, and the king's doctor, of course, searching for them. Father and daughter collected up the tools, and they left the court, with one last look at the tree. Míriel stole a glance at her father as they walked.  
  
He was slower now than he had been, and there seemed to be almost a cloud drifting around him. Surely he was no longer young, but neither was he old, and his hair was mostly silver now. That was just a mark of the grief that he had born in his life. As she watched, his grey eyes seemed to slide out of focus and gaze beyond his surroundings, into the distance. He stopped, and she halted as well, watching him and waiting for him to move again. When his eyes focused on the wall ahead of them, she asked her question.  
  
"What do you see?" These visions had come on him too often lately, and sometimes they seemed wise, and other times nonsense. When things had come to be so uncertain, though, Míriel was almost eager to hear what he might tell her of the future.  
  
"Nothing," her father assured her, brushing her off. His daughter let out a sigh.  
  
"I wish I had your gift, just to know what would happen in the midst of all this… tension!" She had never acquired her father's gift of infinite patience, although from him she had her eyes and love of all things that grew in the earth. And yet, her father never seemed rooted on the earth, but rather in time.  
  
"To see as I have seen is neither gift nor curse, Míriel," Palantir sighed, his voice sounding weary. "To see and not know if what you see can be changed, or if it is unalterable fate... He trailed off, looking down the way. "I thank the Valar that you do not see what I do. It is every father's wish, that his child will have a better life. I still hope that you may have a better life, and hand the scepter to your child in better times." Now they had reached the doors and passed into the palace.  
  
Sure enough, a royal attendant was about to come out in search of them. He bowed upon seeing them and relayed his message. "Your highness, your physician has his medicines ready for you. He has been looking for you."  
  
"No doubt he has," Palantir replied, his response somewhat less than enthusiastic. "Tell him I will take them in a short while. But first I will break my fast with my daughter." The man bowed once more, and after a quick murmur of assent, went off to deliver the message. "I hate taking those medicines," the king grumbled as he followed his daughter towards the dining hall.  
  
"I know you do," she laughed. "But if they keep you strong a while longer, then they are worth taking."  
  
"I have lived my life. I am old, Míriel, old and weary of this world. I cannot, will not stay forever."  
  
As she looked at her father, she could see the weariness in his face and began to understand. She had often thought about the King's Men and their obsession with immortality. It was alluring, the promise of living forever. If her father lived forever, she would not have to worry so much about ruling Númenor on her own. She wouldn't be so frightened at the thought of not having him there to help her, protect her, listen to her. Tar-Palantir had been the ever-present force in her life since she was a baby. He seemed immortal to her, her pillar of strength through the storm. But her father was dying. And that was just something she would have to accept.  
  
"I know how much you worry about me, Míriel." His eyes sought hers, looking into her with expression of fatherly concern. "For a long time now, I have come to understand the Gift of Illúvatar to men. The only healing I will find will be when I am in the presence of Eru." So dark, those words… How could she find comfort in them? The king shook his head. "I make no sense to you yet, but wait. Wait until you are weary of the world, and then you will understand. And may that day come many, many years from now."  
  
"Yes, Father." The mood was decidedly dark now, and Míriel only picked at her breakfast. Concerns began to worm their way back into her mind, and she began to think through her schedule. There would be a council meeting today to discuss new policy, and of course, endless documents and reports to shuffle through. And sometime, she should….  
  
"Would you come with me to Andunië?" her father's words broke through her thoughts. One last time. He didn't need to say it, but they both understood it. They often traveled to Andustar and visited Lord Amandil, her father's good friend. Her father always went to the tower of Oromet and just stared off into the distance. He always searched the horizon, and always found nothing. But it was peaceful in Andustar in a way that Armenelos could never be. Míriel thought of the forests and the flowers and the vast sea. She smiled, the dark thoughts pushed away by fair memories.  
  
Palantir didn't miss his daughter's smile, a rare occurrence now that she had grown into such a grave woman. "And perhaps we shall travel to Eldalonde afterwards?" To that, his daughter nodded enthusiastically. Taking advantage of her good mood, the king pressed on. "You know, I would like to see you married happily before I leave this world."  
  
"Perhaps someday," Míriel answered. "But I will not put the one I love in danger. I could not bear such a pain." They said no more on the subject, for it was not well known what they spoke of. Few knew the truth of how Rilwen, the sweet young wife of the crown prince, had died. Míriel had just discovered the fact herself. Her mother had died when she was only five. Her death was sad because it was so sudden. One day she was healthy, and the next day, she was dying. It was a tragedy that had devastated the king and his young daughter. Palantir never married again: he couldn't. He had found his soul's match in Rilwen, her loss had affected him deeply. Later Míriel discovered why.  
  
Lady Rilwen had been poisoned by the King's Men. They wanted to stop the possibility of a male heir, or at least any more heirs than necessary. When she found out this truth from her father, she began to understand why he had always been so protective of her. And she also understood why she had been challenged so much at a young age. She had to be strong: Númenor depended on it. She had to be strong enough to keep her scepter from the King's Men and their schemes.  
  
But the discovery of her mother's death did something else: it convinced her to hide what her own heart truly wished for. Her father was right, of course. Her heart dwelt in Eldalondë, but that was something that could not be revealed to anyone. At least Palantir understood her hesitance. His own pain at the loss of his beloved wife was still sharp. He let the matter end, and they finished the rest of their morning meal in alternating silence and polite conversation. 


	2. The Tower: Part One

~Daughter of Numenor~  
  
"The Tower: Part One"  
  
*Oromet*  
  
*3255, Second Age*  
  
Life always seemed different when Palantir stood on the tower of Oromet. He was high above Númenor, and all he could see for miles was ocean. Unfortunately, that fact was as disappointing as it was comforting. No boats were coming. "None ever will," he suddenly realized, the words cutting through the silence. "Only ships leaving, so many ships leaving. None coming, nine leaving…" He paid no mind to the words that seemed to come from someplace beyond. This foresight would be the death of him. He was already half mad with worry.  
  
Míriel was still in Andunië, probably arguing with Elendil about some minute detail of lore. Elendil was as good a historian as he was a warrior, and he always had a new story to share with his cousin. And Míriel always refuted the details of his claim based on her reading. The two cousins were as different as they were similar. They were so close in age, and Amandil had always been closer to Palantir than his own brother had. Their children called each other cousin. Míriel had never called Palantir's true brother's son cousin. As a matter of fact, she never called him at all if she had anything to do with it.  
  
It had been ten years since Gimilkhâd's death, the news coming as both blessing and sorrow. He knew in his heart that his brother would have been overjoyed if it was Palantir's death being announced, and yet he could not be glad that Gimilkhâd had died. His brother had been the leader of the King's Men, responsible for some of the worst of their crimes. He had been a hateful man who held grudges until he died. Palantir could still feel his brother's anger and hate hanging over him. Their childhood had been difficult. His mother had been wise enough to take him west with her often, to her kin here in Andunië. His mother's uncle had been Lord of Andunië, and they were always welcome in the west.  
  
If he had the choice, he would never leave Andustar. As king, that choice was not his. He had his duty as ruler, a duty to his country. Yet recently, it had been Míriel that was minding royal affairs. She would make an excellent queen. As his health was declining, she was taking on more and more of the duties expected of the ruler of Númenor. Every day, she won more people over to her side. He had begun to reclaim Númenor from the King's Men, and she was continuing his work.  
  
He was proud of her. Míriel would make a fine queen some day. As his gaze focused on the ocean beyond, he found himself wondering what her days would be like. Would she be able to mend relations with the elves? Would she manage to win over the people of Númenor and return them to the old ways? Would she be able to live with those she loved without fear? There were so many questions and uncertainties, but that did not diminish his pride in his daughter.  
  
Uncertainty. He was still uncertain of why he kept returning to this tower when he knew that no ship would come. Perhaps some thought him mad, to stand here and wait for something that was so impossible. Yet that was hope, he told himself. Hope is not knowing for certain, but never losing faith that what you seek might yet come to pass. Hope was a gift. Some would call foresight a gift, but they did not know the truth of it. Foresight left no room for hope. At least people could still cling to hope, even when the hours grew dark. Perhaps hope gave them some bravery to face adversity, and perhaps that allowed them to triumph even after those with foresight would have given up fighting.  
  
Palantir had fought all his life. He was losing the strength and will to fight any more. The King's Men kept raising popular support for their secret party, no matter how hard he and Míriel tried to sway the people back to the old ways. His brother may have been dead, but his brother's son was no different than his father. They said that Manwë knew all that the people did. Why then did Manwë not see all he had struggled to do in Númenor and send some sign that the curse on their isle might be lifted? When would the Eldar return? More questions without answers.  
  
For all that people looked to him for answers, he seemed to have none to the questions he needed answered. Yet such was the nature of his sight, and he had been forced to accept it. Trying to clear his mind, he looked back out of the tower across the sea. He had always imagined what it must be like there, or even just what it must have been like to greet elves as they came to Eldalondë. When he closed his eyes, he could see it. He was standing beneath the trees in the forests of Eldalondë, the gold leaves of the malinorni glinting in the sun. Everything was peaceful: he felt not the constant fear and anxiety the King's Men left in their wake.  
  
He could see the elf that approached him, offering a formal greeting. They walked long in the woods and spoke of history, family, and all things that grew in the earth. The hours flew past quickly, not dragging as they so often seemed to do. Then the elf left, fading away into the forest. Swiftly, a child darted through the forest, finally stopping in front of him. The boy's eyes were grey as the sea, bright with joy and the innocence of youth. Then he heard his daughter's voice from behind them.  
  
"I see you've found your grandfather at last," she called to her son, who nodded and smiled. Palantir turned to her and stared back at Míriel. She was smiling, no trace of her usual somber expression. The light in her eyes danced with joy; they were no longer haunted by sorrow. On her brow she bore the crown of Númenor and around her neck hung an amulet that announced her union with the Lord of Eldalondë.  
  
"I had to find you, to tell you… we don't have to be afraid any more, Father." Her words echoed in his mind. This was all he had ever hoped for. No more fear, no more despair. And Míriel looked happy as she walked over to rest her hand on the shoulder of her son. Palantir stood there and watched him, and he felt certain that the future would be brighter for his home and his house from this moment on.  
  
Yet all of it was naught more than a dream. When he opened his eyes, he was still in the tower. He still felt the burden on his heart of all his grief, of all his fears and doubts. Now matter how far he looked or how vividly he imagined a life beyond his own bleak reality, nothing changed. His dreams were not nearly so clear as his visions, which had been gaining clarity more and more as the years passed.  
  
The visions. As he looked out to sea, it seemed to him that a single ship slipped in and out of his mind. No matter how he tried to banish it from his mind, it remained. It finally occurred to him that he could not live like this. Eru gave each man one life to live; it was his Gift and his bane. Palantir knew he could not live in both present and future anymore. The more the visions came, the more he felt his earthly strength slipping. Did he even have a choice any more, to stay in this world or fade away into the mists of time with his visions and prophecies? He knew not. All he knew was that there was a ship approaching on the horizon. 


	3. The Tower: Part Two

~Daughter of Numenor~  
  
"The Tower: Part Two"  
  
* Andunië*  
  
*3255, Second Age*  
  
The tower… Míriel examined her piece carefully, thinking of all the possible movements for this piece. One of her last few pieces. Her small black army was resilient, at first retreating then boldly striking out at her opponent. She left the tower where it was and moved a pawn into place. There was a long silence, the only noise in the study coming from the scratching of a pen on parchment.  
  
"Check!" the young man finally announced confidently, taking the pawn with his priest. Her grinned and looked up at his opponent.  
  
"You have improved immensely, Anárion," she praised him, considering her next move.  
  
"He even defeated his own father once," Elendil added from his desk where he was working on translations. It was a quiet day in Andunië, and Anárion had proudly challenged Míriel to a game of chess. Usually, she would play with Elendil whenever she came to visit. Now that Anárion was beginning to master his skills at chess, he was eager to play against her and see what the outcome would be. He had been an excellent opponent so far. Elendil must be proud of his progress, she thought to herself.  
  
Elendil's attention was now on their game of chess as well. "So tell me," he called, "have you been vanquished, cousin?"  
  
"Never." Míriel moved her king out of harm's way, her eyes betraying nothing. Anárion prepared to move his piece in to set up a second check, hopefully to be followed by a checkmate, making the game his. If so, it would be the first time he had ever won against Aunt Míriel.  
  
"Watch your tower, Anárion!" his father warned. He glanced down at the board. "The only time Míriel is patient is when she is playing chess. She plays like a serpent, seemingly harmless but patiently waiting to strike." Elendil earned a glare from his cousin.  
  
"It can hardly be a fair game if you help him, Elendil." Still, the damage was done, and Anárion moved his tower to a safer square. This complicated things a bit. A few more turns passed before Míriel moved her own tower across the board, toppling the white king. "Checkmate." She looked up at her opponent. "That was an excellent game of chess." Anárion nodded as he began to pick up the pieces and reset them on the chessboard.  
  
"A very challenging game," he noted. "I suppose I expected you to play like Father, but I was gravely mistaken. At least I can almost predict his movements."  
  
"It's good for you to play someone with a different strategy," Elendil cut in, walking over to sit on the couch where his son was seated. He still had a number of papers in his hands, and he laid them on the table for the moment. "I suppose I must thank you for avenging my loss to this expert chess player."  
  
"Avenging your loss?" Míriel laughed. "Certainly not. I am merely training him. After all, someone needs to defeat you in chess when I am not here." Her bravado was insincere; in fact, she lost against Elendil almost as often as she won. Everyone laughed, and Anárion rose to leave. Míriel craned her neck to look up at him. The boy had inherited his father's height, although Elendil still towered over both his sons. He towered over everyone, actually…  
  
"I am off to tell Isildur about the game," Anárion explained before going out the door. Both cousins watched him go.  
  
"He's off to regale his brother with his tragic tale of loss and near victory," Elendil laughed. "Anárion has always been such a teller of tales."  
  
"Rather like his father," Míriel quipped, reaching out for his notes. She knew he was struggling with a translation of an old Quenyan text about the city of Gondolin. His notes were meticulously detailed, yet she could see a few notes that did not seem right to her.  
  
"What you deem to be stories are all based on documented fact," her cousin protested, reclaiming one of the papers in the pile. "This paper is from a set of histories written by the son of a refugee. His father built…"  
  
"It is a history, Elendil. All histories are fallible," Míriel maintained. "Unless it's a firsthand account, I am not sure if I trust it entirely. I highly doubt your interpretation… here." She pointed it out to him and waited as his examined it. Elendil's brow furrowed as he reviewed first the history, and then his notes on it. Míriel waited patiently for him to admit his error.  
  
"My translation is perfect," he insisted at last, handing it back to her. She shook her head.  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"But it is…" He trailed off, realizing that she was patronizing him now.  
  
"You take everything too seriously," Míriel teased as she watched her cousin relax again. "Your translation is indeed perfect, although I think another word would work better here than the one you have chosen. However, it is not worth losing sleep." Her cousin just stared back at her.  
  
"You appear to be the one who has been losing sleep. I do not care to imagine how many worries you have that have stolen sleep from you." His eyes were full of sympathy. "Those dark circles around your eyes are getting worse, and I think I see a few grey heirs." How quickly the mood in the sitting room shifted.  
  
"You lie. If I had a single grey hair, my maids in Armenelos would cry and shout and rush in with dyes to turn it black again. Then they would bombard me with their pleas for me to marry before I became an old maid." Frustrated, she sighed, and looked out the window, which faced south. Elendil understood what she was feeling.  
  
He had always felt sorry for his cousin. She had never known anything but the burden of the crown and the fear of the King's Men. She had never been allowed the opportunity to love. He tried to imagine what it would have been like had he not been able to marry Celaurien, what his life would have been like had he not raised two sons. His heart ached for his cousin, for the joy that she was denied. Elendil had always hated the King's Men for the physical harms they inflicted on the Faithful. As he looked at the longing in his cousin's eyes, he began to realize that the fear was the worst weapon of all.  
  
Elendil wanted to say something to his cousin. She should not have to endure…  
  
"Let's play a game of chess," Míriel quietly suggested. He could see that she needed some kind of distraction from her thoughts, so he agreed immediately. As soon as they started the game, he could tell that she was not giving it her full attention. She was preoccupied, and there was little he could do to allay her fears. Happiness would come with time. Fortunately, his cousin was patient, as was her beloved. In time, the light would dance in her eyes again.  
  
Míriel was ready to take Elendil's queen when the door swung open, revealing Amandil, Lord of Andunië. His presence was felt immediately- he was the kind of man people listened to, whether they wanted to or not. Amandil looked rather harried at the moment. He had not been Andunië's lord long; his father, Númendil, had died a year earlier. Adjusting to his new role as a counselor and governor had been difficult for a man accustomed to be exploring the seas and coastlines of Middle Earth. He had been a great captain of men and had led countless victorious skirmishes against Sauron on the shores of Middle Earth.  
  
Now, he looked ill at ease. Amandil had news, they could tell at a glance. As always, he did not keep them waiting. "I have word from the harbor. Lord Pharazôn has returned from the east, and will be arriving soon in Andunië." Míriel's eyes widened at the mention of her true cousin. The news struck her as odd. Amandil did not look as if he had any answers, but she asked her question anyway.  
  
"Why did he not dock in Rómenna?"  
  
"Most of the ships did, I am told," Amandil sighed, coming into the room fully and shutting the door behind him. "But Pharazôn's flagship is bound for Andunië. Perhaps he has news for us." Elendil muttered something inaudible in Sindarin. Míriel suspected that he had been mumbling a few choice insults. Elendil had no love for Pharazôn- they had been near rivals since Pharazôn had come to Andunië in his youth to sail under Amandil's command.  
  
"Perhaps he has made a great conquest and wishes to lord it over us," Elendil grumbled. "He is too proud not to make a show over any victory he might have." As his son spoke, Míriel could see the guilt flood through Amandil; guilt mixed with disappointment.  
  
"His pride was ever his downfall," the Lord of Andunië sighed, sinking down on the couch to sit by his son. "Still… He was the best captain I ever trained. That boy had such potential…" Even Elendil began to feel sorry for his father. It had been no easy task to teach Pharazôn. He was a masterful man who was soundly convinced that his own judgment was best. Yet Amandil had taught him much, and there was no hatred between them. When Pharazôn had taken up his father's mantle and continued to lead the King's Men to work against the rightful rulers and the Faithful, Amandil had been furious. If he was anything like his son, Míriel reflected, Amandil likely thought that he had failed in his responsibility to make their kinsman a good person.  
  
"Potential or not, you could not have changed his nature," she attempted, trying to reassure him. "There is nothing for you to regret, Amandil. No son of Gimilkhâd could ever have been redeemed. His father fed him on hatred and filled his mind with cruelty." Perhaps she was angrier than she should have been, Míriel reflected, but her family and people had suffered too much at the hands of Gimilkhâd and his son. It was hard for her to understand what good Amandil could see in Pharazôn. How could there be anything good in a man that manipulated people in such a way?  
  
"No matter what, we cannot avoid meeting him. It would not bode well for us to ignore his presence and force him to seek us out. Pharazôn is popular with the people," Amandil told them.  
  
"So it is inevitable that we must grant him hospitality?" Elendil rose stiffly and began to pace, clearly upset. He began to think out loud, his father and cousin listening carefully to every word. "I fear that the next few weeks will prove to be very difficult for us. We must be watchful for any uprisings by the King's Men, yet at the same time we cannot alert Pharazôn to our vigilance. It is a twisted game we are playing…" Amandil shook his head.  
  
"That such a game would be necessary, I never dreamed." The older man looked down, memories of the past on his mind. Míriel had often heard her father speak of the days when her grandfather had ruled Númenor. Palantir told her that he and Amandil planned to restore the glory of their land in a few short years, a naïve hope for two naïve young boys who were unable to understand the complexities of politics. She herself had been an idealist once, but now, she was buffeted every day by the abrasive truth. They were playing a dangerous game with their opponents, but every game they won brought them one step closer to their goal. Amandil thought for a while, running a hand through his hair. "What is our next move in the game?"  
  
"Let him come to us," she suggested, devising a strategy in her mind. "He will come to us; there is no doubt of that. Not only does he hold you in high esteem Amandil, but he will try and profit from your popularity and influence by attaching himself to your house. Besides, I am here, as is my father. As Elendil said, he will want to proclaim his victory to us directly, rather than let us have news of it. He will not want to give us any time to react."  
  
"Then what would you have us do Míriel?" Amandil had learned that when it came to matters of political intrigue, his kinswoman was brilliant. She made do with what resources she had, but used them to great effect. These days, there was so little power for her to wield, but she managed to keep the Faithful in power. It never ceased to amaze him. The princess seemed to consider her next move, as carefully as she planned out a game of chess.  
  
"Should we invite him to stay here as a guest?" she wondered aloud. It was obvious that Elendil disliked this suggestion, but he seemed to agree with his cousin.  
  
"At least if we keep him here, we may keep him under our eye," he counseled his father. "We cannot trust him not to rally the local parties of King's Men if we left him to his own devices. I suppose it would be better to keep him occupied here." The Lord of Andunië nodded.  
  
"Wise counsel from both my son and my niece… I concur that we should appear open and accepting to Pharazôn while keeping him under close watch. We must remain in control."  
  
Control! Míriel despised that word. With Pharazôn, everything was a game of control. He was respected or feared by most of Númenor; she knew how this fed his pride and drove him to seek more control over people. She had been struggling to counter him for years now. Predictability was his weakness: she could count on him to act on his pride and greed. Unless there was some deep secret of his that he yet kept, she had the measure of him. With a great deal of planning and a little luck, they could prevent a disaster.  
  
"Should we send for Palantir to come?" Amandil asked after a few moments. He looked into Míriel's eyes for an answer. She only shook her head.  
  
"Send word to him that Pharazôn is here, but do not bid him come. He does not need to be troubled with that right now. I will handle this." I will handle this as I handle everything else, she thought. Her father had enough of a burden on his shoulders already. She would greet Pharazôn and play the warm and welcoming cousin. And afterwards, she would set to mending what damage he would inevitably do. She would take care of everything as she always did.  
  
Amandil considered her words quickly before responding. "Very well, Míriel. Your decision is a sound one. I see why your father is so proud of you…" He spared her a slight smile before rising to leave. "I have to see what I can arrange. If we are to receive him, rooms must be prepared, dinners be arranged… I must see that everything is done when he arrives." He rose to go and looked down at the chess board lying abandoned on the table. "Terribly sorry I had to ruin your game." With that, he exited the study, looking as harried as ever.  
  
Elendil looked over at his cousin and marveled that there were no wrinkles yet on her brow. How she could remain looking so young and bore so many burdens was beyond him. Míriel now wore a look of worry and frustration to her as she considered the situation. "I am sorry that your visit could not have been more uneventful, cousin," he apologized. He was rewarded with a slight smile.  
  
"At least it won't be dull…" She trailed off for a moment, considering something else. Then she spoke, just as he was about to turn and leave. "You will see to the spies, of course?" He nodded and began to make his own plans.  
  
"I will make sure that my people help them unload the cargo from the boats, and I will instruct them to open their ears to any information Pharazôn or his people might drop. If they dress very similarly to his own men, he might be a little more careless with his speech. Perhaps he will let some information slip…"  
  
"Valar grant us that small boon," Míriel prayed quickly. "I will always trust you, Elendil. You have never failed me, and something in my heart tells me you never will."  
  
"May it be so," he replied quickly. "Well, cousin, let us take up our duties." With that, he left, striding away out of the study and down the long hallway.  
  
Míriel sat on the couch for a few moments, staring at the chess board. She had been moving her black king in to take his queen, then proceed to take the tower that defended his king, and then the king itself. The black king, approaching the tower… As she looked down at the board, she found herself mumbling. "The white queen will fall, and the tower, but not the white king…" With a sigh, she rose and left the small study and made her way to her rooms to prepare herself for the coming of Pharazôn. 


	4. The Game

Daughter of Numenor  
  
The Game  
  
Anduni  
  
3255, Second Age  
  
They waited at the gate of the estate to greet Pharazôn. His ship had already docked in the harbor, and the captain had sent word that he would meet his kinsman at their home. Míriel waited nervously, wondering what news would come with him, and if it would be as unwelcome as her cousin was. He had long been away on a campaign to defeat pirates that had been preying on Numenorean ships sailing to their havens in the east. Now he was returning, for better or worse. She stood next to Elendil and Amandil, wishing that all this could just be over with.  
  
Pharazôn and his party came into view at last, marching up from the harbor. The son of Gimilkhâd led the crowd, striding towards them with a winning smile on his face. He was arrayed in red and gold, looking more like a prince than a captain, much to Míriel's disgust. Pharazôn exuded arrogance with every step, every smile, every word he spoke to his followers and to the people who had come to watch his approach. Many people loved him, for he was a charming man. The ladies of the court certainly admired him, always remarking on how handsome he was and how they could hardly believe that he had not yet chosen a wife.  
  
His kinswoman was not deceived. She saw the truth in his cold grey eyes. She saw the cruelty and greed that lay behind them. Elendil stood next to her, probably as uncomfortable as she was right now. The entourage drew close to them, stopping just before the gates. Pharazôn spoke as soon as he stood before Amandil, with a slight bow in the traditional Numenorean fashion. "Lord Amandil of Andunië! I return in triumph, with both news and gifts."  
  
"Welcome home, Captain Pharazôn," Amandil greeted him, bowing in turn. "I would be honored if you would take the midday meal with us."  
  
"The honor would be mine," the captain replied, with the smoothness of a practiced diplomat. Then his attention turned to Míriel. She met his gaze with equal coolness, a look of forced decorum. He spoke first, after what seemed to be a rather awkward silence. "It is a pleasure to see you here, Míriel," Pharazôn told her honestly. "I heard you and your father were in Andunië upon my arrival. Therefore, I decided that the best course of action would be to come and announce my victory to Númenor's king and crown princess in person." She nodded civilly, not wanting to have to say any more than necessary.  
  
Elendil came to her rescue, cutting in on the conversation. "If you would pardon my interruption, Captain, dinner is prepared for us in the house. I do believe that you have eaten cold food enough over the last few days."  
  
"Of course, Elendil," Pharazôn replied, using the man's first name in as disrespectful a tone as he could, daring him to make some sign of disapproval. Elendil made none, and headed back to the house. Míriel was about to follow him back when Pharazôn offered her his arm. Amandil, seeing this, went ahead to join his son and lead the way. Forced to accept his offer, she reluctantly tucked her arm in his. As she did so, he signaled for a servant to follow him with other trunks and treasures and they made their way up the paved path that led to the manor.  
  
"You arrival is quite a surprise, Cousin," she said neutrally, trying to make conversation. "I had not expected you back so soon." If I had, she thought, I never would have left Armenelos. She hadn't expected him to return until midsummer, by which time she had planned to be safely back in the capital and rallying her political allies. Armenelos was open and vulnerable, and she was thankful he had not chosen to go there first. She could not afford to lose all the small victories she had won over the King's Men since his departure.  
  
"No, I suppose my coming was rather unexpected. Our victory over the pirates was swift, though, and I wanted to return to Númenor as soon as possible. I hope you are pleased, Princess, I know how strongly you advocated the defeat of the pirates and the protection of our ports on Middle Earth." By the tone of his voice, it seemed to her that he realized the truth. His king had given him the official command, but Míriel had been behind the proposal. It was not banishment, but close enough for her purposes. When the leader of Númenor's fleet complained of pirates, she had suggested that Pharazôn be sent to lead the foray against them. At that point, she had desperately wanted him off the island so the King's Men would be left leaderless, less organized, and thus cause less harm. She should have known he would know her motives.  
  
Míriel looked over at her cousin and forced a smile. "It is my duty to keep my people safe. I will do what I must to achieve that end." If he noticed the implied threat in that statement, he made no sign of it. They simply continued on to the house. Elendil opened the great door and walked over to stand by his wife and sons, who were standing just inside.  
  
Lady Celaurien of Andunië was the picture of a perfect hostess. She was robed in a fine blue gown, and her golden hair was pinned up practically but not artistically. Given the short notice, she looked completely elegant and at ease. Míriel wished she had the younger woman's gift of always seeming at ease, no matter the situation. "Welcome to our home, Captain Pharazôn," Celaurien greeted pleasantly.  
  
"It is an honor to be invited to dine with you, my lady," he told her in his most courteous manner.  
  
"Then honor us further by staying here during your time in Andunië," she replied instantly. Her smile was dazzling, ever the perfect hostess. Everyone who met her praised her as a sweet, generous woman. Those who really knew her knew better than to be deceived by appearances. Celaurien could be fiercer than a summer storm when crossed and was as talented at espionage as she was at diplomacy. Pharazôn was taken in, accepting her offer with many thanks and complimenting her on her excellent hospitality and generosity. After listening, Celaurien glanced around quickly, finally meeting Míriel's eyes. Then she spoke again.  
  
"Princess Míriel, I must speak with you right away. Dinner will begin in a few minutes, and I need you to help make some of the final preparations. I mean not to steal you from your cousin's company so soon, but…" Míriel had no doubt of what preparations Celaurien was speaking of. Elendil's men had returned to the house while the main party was waiting at the gates. Pharazôn no doubt thought they needed to discuss domestic matters. He, like too many others, underestimated Elendil's wife. Míriel was glad of it. Celaurien could not be a great captain of men or command a ship, but her role was no less valuable to the Faithful.  
  
Míriel pulled her arm away from Pharazôn, relief sweeping through her. Her cousin simply smiled at her and nodded slightly, in mockery of a formal bow. "Perhaps after dining we could have a quiet conversation of our own where we will not be interrupted. I have something for you." There was something unrecognizably odd about his tone. Her brow furrowed and she nodded.  
  
"Of course," she managed, awkwardly backing away from him. Amandil came and engaged Pharazôn in conversation as she did, and she slipped away after Celaurien. They walked towards the kitchens in silence. When they came to the door of a small storage room, Celaurien opened it and beckoned her to go inside. The little room was filled with silver platters and dishes, but was wide enough for both women to be in without bumping into each other. The golden haired woman entered after Míriel and shut the door behind her.  
  
"I thought you might appreciate a chance to escape your cousin's company," Celaurien whispered, her low voice barely audible. Míriel nodded as the other woman reached for a platter on the highest shelf. She retrieved the platter with ease: Elendil's wife was only six inches lacking of her husband's height.  
  
"Have Elendil's men returned with news?" Míriel wondered.  
  
"Pharazôn is here to boast of his victory and to spite us," came the immediate reply. "At least, that is what his sailors believe. In truth, they came straight here from Rómenna."  
  
"I do not understand why. He should have gone to the capital in my absence and taken up his command of the King's Men again. Yet he came here instead. Why? Do they know why he came by sea and not on the road through Armenelos?"  
  
"For pride and display," was her answer. "He wanted to make a grand show of it to raise support for his people in Andustar, and sailing in on a grand ship full of treasure was the biggest spectacle he could arrange. We must be thankful he has made a mistake this time."  
  
"How long will he stay with us?"  
  
"His formal answer is a week, but the men say he is preparing to leave in two days. When he arrived in Rómenna, he was told that you and your father planned to be away for another month. So he is not as unwise as we suppose him to be. He is planning to return to Armenelos and reorganize the King's Men." That was the bad news Míriel had been waiting for.  
  
"We had best return with this platter," she muttered. "People will wonder where we are." Celaurien agreed, and they left the little storage room and headed to the kitchens to deliver the dish. Míriel was still thinking about the report and trying to sort everything out in her mind. Her plans had been fragmented by Pharazôn's arrival, and she desperately needed time to think.  
  
All through the meal, Míriel was preoccupied with her plans. Amandil held Pharazôn's attention through most of the meal as they discussed the campaign against the pirates. Elendil and his sons managed to maintain civility, and she knew that they were eager to plan their next move as well. It was almost comical, how courteous a meal it seemed to be. On the surface, it was a sedate dinner between distant kinsmen. Inside, each side was planning the other's downfall and struggling to keep up the appearance of being friendly and polite. It would be comical were it not the game she had been playing all her life.  
  
At long last, the meal came to an end, and all stood up from the table. Amandil told Pharazôn that he could now have time to settle in to his new apartments. The captain nodded and thanked both host and hostess for their generosity and kindness. Then they were free to depart, and Míriel quickly hurried out, hoping to have more time to think on her plans to counter Pharazôn. The Lord of Andunië and his family escaped the hall first, leaving their cousin behind them. Then she heard the captain's voice from behind her.  
  
"Míriel," Pharazôn whispered to her as they left the dining hall, "come with me." Confusion knit her brow, and she demanded what he wanted of her, perhaps a bit more sharply than she had intended. Inside, she was frustrated with herself for slipping and losing her courteous façade. Her cousin did not seem to mind her reply. "I have something for you." There was no choice but to follow him as he set off, and so she did.  
  
He led her away, down a long hall. No one seemed to notice they were leaving. They might worry when she did not come to discuss things with Celaurien, but it wouldn't take long to deal with her cousin and return to more important preparations. She followed him to a small room that served as a sitting room for receiving guests. The midday sun illuminated it, casting lines across the floor as it shone between the window frames. Míriel turned to Pharazôn as he shut the door, wondering what he wanted.  
  
Perhaps he wanted to make a political bargain. Did he really think she would compromise with one of the King's Men? Surely not- Pharazôn was intelligent and on occasion, even insightful. He was no idiot. Yet even as she wracked her brain for answers, she could think of nothing else he would need a private audience to offer her.  
  
"Míriel," he repeated, breaking the silence. "It has been long indeed since last we spoke."  
  
"Not long enough," she wanted to reply, but with great effort held her tongue. "It has, Cousin," the princess replied instead. "It has been a great many years. Yet the years have been kind to you." A compliment. It was not so difficult. Indeed, the years had been kind to her confident cousin. He had grown stronger, both physically and politically. Pharazôn had risen to the height of his charisma: his appearance youthful, yet possessing the craftiness that came with experience. Other women might sigh over him, but his kinswoman knew the truth. She could see it in his eyes: those cold, cruel grey eyes that were like daggers tearing through her to where she was most vulnerable.  
  
Míriel would not hold his gaze long and looked away casually. He seemed not to have noticed the long moments that had passed and spoke as if that awkward time had not existed. Sauntering away from the door and towards where she stood, he answered her. "Not any kinder than they have been to you. Your wisdom becomes you, and the beauty of Lúthien has not dimmed in you, only grown more brilliant." Suddenly, Míriel began to feel uncomfortable. Why did he bother giving her such compliments when there was no audience to deceive? She hardly knew how to respond to him anymore. Confusion set in, a feeling she liked not at all. Míriel was dealing with dangerous and delicate negotiations here; she could not afford to be taken aback.  
  
"What is it you have for me?" she finally managed. Hopefully this would not take long. Suddenly, she had a deep desire to be away from him.  
  
"I have something for you, but also something to say. You must admit, there are few words between us now." He spoke the obvious truth. Since his father's death, they had not spoken. Twelve years she had avoided her cousin, and now she was forced to deal with him directly. Perhaps she had fallen out of practice. There was too much on her mind, and she grew weary of speaking carefully.  
  
"Did you expect many words between us Pharazôn? You have been busy among your people, making me busy among mine." He never lost his calm despite her accusation.  
  
"I have been busy, indeed, at the decree of the crown," he replied. "Please, I do not wish for this to be a battle of wills, Míriel. Why must we always quarrel when left alone to speak?" He said it honestly enough, but it made her want to laugh at him in a way. Why indeed!  
  
"You know why." Her voice was quiet, rebuking him for even asking the question. How could he expect her to treat him as a beloved cousin when he was leading the party of men that had killed her mother, driven her father to despair, and kept her from being wed for fear that her husband would suffer the same fate as her mother? She feared what he could persuade his people to do. In her mind, all his crimes were unforgivable.  
  
"Let us put aside all our arguments for now," he asked her. She consented at last, still not understanding why Pharazôn was in such an odd temper today. Could his campaign in Middle Earth have altered him so? No… She had heard of his plans to rally the King's Men again. He had not changed. Or perhaps he had- the look in his eyes was different now. He was looking at her now not at all as an opponent or obstacle to be overcome, but rather as an ally.  
  
"What is it you had for me?"  
  
"A peace offering," he replied and reached into his pocket. She did not understand, although she struggled to think of what he could be talking about. Peace offering? What kind of peace offering would he give to her? She had her answer soon enough. Pharazôn drew out a silvery chain; on the end of it was one of the most exquisite pendants she had ever seen. It was a marriage of mithril and adamant in the shape of a swan. The workmanship was so delicate that every feather was visible. Each gem caught the light of the sun and they all gleamed like a thousand brilliantly colored flames. For a moment, she was lost, just staring at it in wonder.  
  
"Where did you find such a masterpiece?" she marveled. In the royal coffers, there were few jewels so fine as this. Tales of the jewel smiths of Eregion and their skill with such pieces had come even to Númenor. Seeing this, Míriel was almost sure that it must have had its origin there. But surely Pharazôn would not seek for her an elvish artifact…   
  
"It was among the treasures the pirates had stolen," he explained. Perhaps he did not know of its origin, then. Still, it was amazing to see such a thing. The captain continued his narrative. "When we took account of all the treasure, this stood out like a star amidst the heavens, and so I claimed it."  
  
"But…" she stammered, "Why do you offer it to me so?" It was not unusual for a victorious captain to present a gift to his liege, but not in this fashion. He should have presented it to her with flourish and falsity in Armenelos or even in the main hall here in Andunië. Why? She must know.  
  
"I wanted to give it to you, because I thought it a fitting tribute to you. As Lúthien Tinúviel had the Nauglamir, so shall you have a gem worthy of you, Míriel Alqualien." For one who hated the elven tongue, the names flowed like gentle music from him. Few had called her by that nickname since she had taken up her father's duties years ago.  
  
"Lúthien's life burned away under the brightness of the Silmaril. Would you have mine do so?" She attempted to draw out some deeper meaning behind the gift with her questions, but Pharazôn hardly looked fazed at any of her responses.  
  
"Never. You are not a light burning to bright, but rather as the jewel you are named for, enduringly brilliant." Polite answer though it was, Míriel still was not satisfied.  
  
"Enough flattery, Pharazôn," she commanded. "Why?"  
  
"Because it is lovely, and it will look lovely on one who will wear it with the grace and majesty it deserves," he answered, ignoring her command. "Besides, I wanted to improve relations between us. Your father is dying. You will be queen soon enough…"  
  
"What do you know of it?" He had found a vulnerable point within her, and the wound now lay exposed and raw. She should have been silent, but in that moment, he became the object of all her frustrations. "My father is too young to die. He would not be ailing if he were not so troubled by the King's Men. Even if he is sick, it does not mean that he is weak. If you think you can take advantage of us, you are gravely mistaken. I am still strong, and I will not…"  
  
"Calm yourself, Míriel. You misunderstand me," Pharazôn attempted. "I meant no offense towards you or the King."  
  
"Then what do you mean, Pharazôn?" She was beginning to tremble, with an emotion she knew not. Was it fear for her father, fear for herself, fear of Pharazôn? Or was it anger: at her cousin, her situation, how helpless she was change anything? Perhaps it was everything at once, but no matter what it was, she could not longer maintain her composure.  
  
Her hands clenched at her sides so tightly that her fingernails cut into her palms. Quickly, Pharazôn moved directly in front of her and took on of her shaking hands, pressing it flat and leaving the necklace in it. "Believe that I have spoken no falsehoods. I came to speak of alliances, but now is not the time, I see." He turned and started back towards the door.  
  
Míriel looked down at the delicate swan in her shaking hand. Was it in him to make peace with one of the Faithful? Most likely it was only an attempt to wrest more power from her. Still, there was a note of sincerity in his voice. He was not trying to deceive her. That was why she didn't understand. It was imperative that she know what alliance he wanted, and deal with it quickly, no matter how shaken she was.  
  
"Thank you for your gift, cousin," she managed. He stopped and turned to listen to her. "As to this alliance, speak and I will listen." As she spoke, he walked back towards her, standing directly before her.  
  
"Here." He took the necklace from her still trembling hands. Pharazôn unclasped the chain and brushed back her hair to fasten it. Míriel stood there stunned and confused, not sure of what to say or do. The clasp snapped shut and Pharazôn pulled his hands back, resting them on her shoulders. He looked at her strangely, his grey eyes so cold and cutting. "Míriel," he began to say…  
  
"Tar-Palantir, king of Númenor," announced a voice in the hallway. Míriel took a step back from her cousin as the door swung open. The aging king went toward his daughter with the blind concern of a parent. Amandil, Elendil, and Celaurien were close behind, and the herald announced them as well. Fortunately for the them all, the Lord of Andunië smoothed things over.  
  
"We have been looking for you, Princess, Captain Pharazôn. The king is recently returned from Oromet and wishes to speak with you both." Míriel just stood silently by her father, still quavering slightly. Tar-Palantir clasped his daughter's unclenched hand for reassurance. Meanwhile, Pharazôn delivered a short explanation.  
  
First he bowed to the king. "My apologies for not presenting myself sooner. No doubt Lord Amandil has conveyed news of the battle?" Palantir nodded and gestured for him to continue. "I was informed that you were out, so I took the liberty of presenting my tribute to the crown princess at this time." All eyes went to Míriel and quickly settled on the sparkling pendant.  
  
"You are to be commended on your victory, or so Amandil tells me," the king told the captain. "I understand it was a difficult campaign, but well worth the cost."  
  
"A very lucrative campaign," Pharazôn agrees. "I have more tribute to present to you, Uncle, tonight in the great hall."  
  
Celaurien promised, "I will arrange for celebrations in honor of Númenor's victory." That meant she would be arranging for spies to listen to the tales of Pharazôn's sailors and soldiers once their tongues were loosened by Andustar's wine. Pharazôn only nodded and excused himself courteously. He left them in the little room, but not before giving Míriel one last look.  
  
As soon as he left, Elendil bid the herald leave and shut the door. "I liked not the way he looked at you, Míriel," he said immediately. "It was as if you were denying him that which he most wanted."  
  
"She is," Celaurien cut in. "It is the throne he desires, and that will fall to Míriel under Aldarion's law."  
  
"What did he say to you?" Amandil was trying to remain calm and reasonable, but he too was curious as to the nature of the princess's conversation with her cousin. "Did he tell you anything of his plans?" She remained silently, seemingly focused on some point for in the distance.  
  
Palantir dismissed all the questions and addressed his daughter. "You're shaking, Míriel. What is wrong?" He seemed to capture here attention. She looked at him a moment before speaking quickly, as if she were resolved to say what she must although it brought her great sadness.  
  
"Make ready the horses and rouse my guard. I leave for Armenelos this moment." Celaurien protested, but Míriel shook her head. "I must arrive before Pharazôn. The capital is vulnerable, and he knows it well. To reach Armenelos before him, I must leave now."  
  
At last, the king nodded in agreement. "Wise decision. I will make ready to leave…"  
  
"No," his daughter objected. She looked up at him, trying to explain herself. "I will go alone. You stay here, and let me deal with him. You need no more worries, Father. If you can find peace here, then here you should stay." She could do this, she told herself. It was one more way she could protect him, perhaps even save him. He would not stand long against such grief as the return of the strength of the King's Men.  
  
"And when will you find peace, Míriel?" Elendil asked her quietly. She tried to force a smile for them.  
  
"Someday. But not today." No, she would have no peace today. There was too much on her mind now. The trembling had nearly stopped; Míriel willed herself to be still. She must be the master of herself. Yet, even as she looked at her father, Pharazôn's words cut into her again. She was afraid, she realized. She would lose her father someday, but it couldn't be now, when she needed him so much. "I do not want to leave you, Father," she finally said, embracing him as if she were still a little girl. He returned the gesture warmly, then held her at arm's length, considering her a moment.  
  
"You are resolved to do this?" he asked her quietly. She nodded.  
  
"I must. Let me go… for you."  
  
"You are queen of Númenor in all but name…" Amandil noted. "I have no fears for the future."  
  
"I do," Míriel cut in. "That is why I must counter the King's Men now."  
  
Celaurien took her husband's arm. Elendil was clearly troubled, but his wife's physical reassurance seemed to pacify him, as did her words. "All of us understand the necessity of your actions."  
  
"Go then, but be careful," her cousin bid her. Elendil held out his free hand to her. She walked over and clasped it.  
  
"Until we meet again, cousin. I'll return as soon as I may." She said farewell to Celaurien and Amandil as well before turning to her father.  
  
"I will walk with you," he told her before she could bid him goodbye. She was grateful he would not leave her yet. When he left her the final time, for the halls of Eru, so much would change. He was the constant source of strength for her, even now as he faded. If going to Armenelos might help him, she would do it. She would do anything only to know that he was still here with her. Even as she rode away from Andunië, she looked back at him until he was too small to see, but her heart was comforted in knowing he was still there. 


	5. The Inevitable

The Inevitable  
  
Noirinand  
  
3255, Second Age  
  
The wind tugged at the banners draped in black, and the sky overhead was gloomy and grey. Míriel's tears had dried; she had no more tears left. Riding at the head of the funeral procession, she had never felt so alone. She wished she had her family or her beloved by her side, but they were all far away, and could bring her no comfort now.  
  
Behind her lay the Tomb of the Kings, at the feet of the Meneltarma. She remembered when her grandfather had been laid to rest there. Never had Ar-Gimilzôr been fond of his eldest son and granddaughter, so his death hurt Míriel only in that it meant a change in her life. She remembered looking on the resting places of her ancestors. The family resemblance was clear, and she had marveled to notice something of Elros Tar-Minyatur's features in her own father. She never believed the day would come when her father's features would be cold and still, another silent king in a silent tomb.  
  
It was so cold amidst all the stone. She had shivered as she spoke the words of blessing and prayer over the grave of the king. He looked so peaceful, as he only had at the very end. But he was gone, just as she had always feared. Now everything depended on her. Even though she had been the acting ruler for years, the official title was like a crushing weight that had settled on her shoulders.  
  
Tar-Míriel. Her guard addressed her so, although she had not yet taken up the scepter and Erendis' star. Tar-Míriel, Queen of Númenor. All of her father's lessons resounded in her head. A ruled existed to serve the people, never themselves. A ruler must be a guide, a source of strength, a wise and just caretaker. Now she felt as if she was none of those things, but she knew what she had to do.  
  
No more fear. When she returned, she would speak with Lord Galisil of Eldalondë. He had waited so long for her for a time without fear, but perhaps that time would never come. They had loved each other for so long, and she needed him by her side now more than ever. Besides, without a recognized heir, the throne would fall to the line of Pharazôn. She would rather die than see him or his progeny destroy all she and her father had worked for.  
  
"You will be queen soon…" Pharazôn's words still echoed in her mind. How had he known? Not three weeks after she had hurried back to Armenelos, Isildur himself had come bearing news from Andunië. Palantir was dying. The visions had been coming more and more often, and he was losing his hold on Arda. He was fading away, and when he was lucid he spoke often of his daughter.  
  
There was no question of what to do. She left Armenelos as quickly as she had left Andunië. Leaving behind instructions for her ministers and advisors, she rode with Isildur and her personal guard to Andustar as quickly as their horses would carry them. With every passing minute, she prayed to Illúvatar not to let her be too late. He must have heard her prayer, for when she arrived, the king yet lived.  
  
It was Elendil that greeted them at the door. His face was grave, and she could see the pain in his eyes. Isildur fell back, letting the cousins speak. Elendil had escorted Míriel inside as quickly as he could, trying to explain to her the circumstances surrounding the past few weeks. He told her that Amandil was with his cousin now. They were all waiting for her. Foreboding hung in the air, and it seemed to her as if the mourning had already begun.   
  
Ever since Pharazôn's return, the King's Men had rallied behind their leader. At first, Míriel thought her decision to return to Armenelos seemed wise. The Kings men were organizing, but she managed to reach the capital in time to start counter measures to fight off any direct challenges to her authority or attempts to undermine her power in the city. Night and day there were problems to deal with, and important business came up that required royal attention.  
  
Elendil had told her how news of this reached the ears of the King. As it came, he had seemed to age more and more every day. His kin had tried to shield him from the distressing news that kept flooding in. Somehow, the news still came to him. It could no longer be ignored. There was even violence flaring up in Andustar itself. All this settled like a dark storm cloud about the king. No one should have had to bear the burdens Tar-Palantir bore. Now he was collapsing beneath their weight, fading into time and slipping beyond the world.  
  
Elendil had opened the door to the king's chamber, and Amandil went over to her with a look of sorrow. He gestured silently for her to go into her father's bedroom. She passed through the small sitting room and went through the door as the Lord of Andunië and his son went out into the hall. Then she looked on her father for the last time. He was asleep and dreaming when she entered. It was a light sleep, as always, a sleep where he seemed at once aware of what was around him, but in another world as well. He called to her, his voice strangely distant. "Tar Míriel, Queen of Númenor." His words cut deep down into her heart, for she knew that these words would soon be true. No longer would she be Míriel, daughter of Tar-Palantir, but Tar-Míriel, the queen and protector of her people.  
  
She said nothing at first. All she could do was go to his side and stand by the side of his bed as he awoke and looked up at her. "I've been waiting for you," he told her quietly.  
  
"Waiting?" Without thinking, she asked the question. He just barely smiled at her, and her heart nearly broke with pity. He looked so frail, as if that small smile took all his energy. Yet at the same time, she could still sense the strength of his mind. This was her father, and yet a change was coming about him. Nothing could prepare her for what was to come.  
  
"Waiting to accept the Gift of Illúvatar." The breath caught in her throat, and she sank down to her knees beside his bed, tears forming in her eyes.  
  
"You can't…" she muttered. "You can't leave me."  
  
"I will," came his soft answer. "I will and I must. The gift is still mine to accept. Would you have me linger in illness and insanity until my spirit and body break from sorrow and pain?" She shook her head, trying to conceal her selfish desire. Inside, she was a storm of emotion.  
  
How could he leave her now, when the future was so uncertain? He was abandoning her to face the world alone. Yet, did she not face many things alone now, to keep him from grief? Did she not have a duty to fulfill? In truth, she had no desire to see him in such pain. He had already suffered so much in remaining here. Even so, her heart was torn and she could not bring herself to speak.  
  
"I understand now," Palantir tried to explain. He sensed her indecision and turmoil, of course. His voice was so soothing. She wanted to believe him so badly it truly hurt. His words brought no comfort to her, though. "I am weary of this world's troubles. When my spirit departs, I go to the realm of Illúvatar, where I will dwell in peace and contentment. No more fear, Míriel. No more fear."  
  
"I don't understand," she finally managed. "I can't…"  
  
"But you will." His eyes lost their focus, looking at something beyond this small room. Then he focused on her again, his words tinged with sadness. "When all the elements come together, you will understand. Your time will come, and you will know it. You will know that what Elros chose was no curse, but a gift. Míriel, you always worry about the future, and the only wisdom I can give you is to tell you that you need not worry any more. You are strong. You will endure all that is to come."  
  
Every moment her desperation grew. "But what is to come?" she asked him. "Have you seen my future?" Her eyes were so hopeful, and she could see his disappointment. She knew his answer even before he spoke.  
  
"Only a shadow," was his elusive answer. "I cannot tell you your fate, only pray that you may succeed in realizing all your hopes and dreams." Still so uncertain… Her grief for herself began to twist into regret. He wasn't telling her the whole of what he had seen, but she would not press him now. She was being so selfish…  
  
"I am sorry," Míriel finally told her father. "I have done what seemed wise to me, but in the end it has all come to ruin. You will never hold your grandchild or…"  
  
Her father stopped her, shaking his head slightly. "Do not speak of it." She fell silent, the tears still flowing freely down her cheeks. With great effort, the king raised a hand to brush them away. "My little Míriel. I have watched you grow from a tiny baby into a beautiful and wise woman. Nothing has given me more joy, or more fear. But now you can stand on your own. You no longer need me. It is what every parent faces. I love you, my dearest daughter. Know this- you are my only hope, my only light, and for you, I would stay."  
  
She wanted to reply immediately and say "Please stay, Father, and do not leave me." Yet she remained silent and said nothing. No matter how much she wanted him to stay, she could not ask it of him. It would be so selfish to make that foolish demand. He had given her everything; he should not give her this. For love of her, he was willing to stay, even in pain and despair. For love of him, she could let him go.  
  
"I love you, Father," she finally told him. "But you are tired. You can sleep now and I will be all right. And I promise… no more fear." Then he smiled at her, a smile that reminded her of days long past, when he would smile at her mother and herself in the gardens in Andustar. Tar-Palantir had found his peace at last.  
  
"Thank you," was all he said as he leaned back against the pillows. Her tears were drying now, but her throat was still tight. She tried to say farewell, but the words would not come, so she only sat with him until her fell asleep again, until his breathing slowed to a stop. When Amandil returned late that night, Míriel was still holding her father's cold hand, looking down at him with a strange emptiness in her usually bright grey eyes.  
  
That memory was burned into her soul. Her father was dead, but she was left with his legacy. She was his hope now. Someday, she would be with him again, but now she had work to do. She knew the King's Men were to blame for Tar-Palantir's death. It was her duty now to rid Númenor of them forever. No more fear.  
  
It was easy to tell herself, but harder to try and bring it into reality. Her enemies were strong. The people were easily swayed by their promises. Who would not wish to live forever? Was it truly fair that so many gifts be given to the elves? The people of Númenor were nearly their equals in skill and might. Should they not then claim what they merited and be angry with those that denied them? Even Míriel had to admit that she was tempted by the King's Men promises. What most people had forgotten, however, was that everything was by the design of Illúvatar. He would never have cursed his children. Even that which seemed dark and terrible might have effects that would bring great good.  
  
So few understood that now. Míriel was gaining more supporters, though. She would be safe enough. Once she was sure of popular support, the tables would turn. Then the King's Men would find themselves out of favor, and they would flee Númenor. Their terrorism would end. She vowed to be stricter in punishing those who murdered or burned the homes of others. Then she would start more schools to teach the elvish languages and histories. Somewhere, a large amount of lore written in Quenya still existed. It had been written during the island's golden age, and buried by those who abandoned the old ways. All it needed was someone to uncover it.  
  
It would be a start. Her reign would further rejuvenate the island. Míriel hoped that she could live to see the day when Númenor regained its former glory. Once again, it would become a place of learning and peace. In a few days, she would return to Meneltarma and speak on the holy mountain for the first time. She already knew what her prayer would ask. No more fear, only hope and happiness for all Númenor, but also for herself.  
  
There would always be obstacles to consider. She looked towards Armenelos. There dwelt her treacherous cousin now, most likely rejoicing because another leader of the Faithful was gone. Taking care of him would prove to be difficult. He was popular with the people, and had mighty friends. Perhaps she would make him Lord of Umbar, which would effectively exile him to a port on Middle Earth favored by the King's Men. That would keep him far from his allies on the island. Without their leader in the middle of things, the King's Men would lose much of their potency. She made a mental note to ask her advisors about it upon her return.  
  
The captain of her guard rode over to her. Aldancar had been with her for many years and knew her well. He was also in mourning for his king, but his strong sense of duty drew him over to the lady he had sworn to serve. "Tell me, your Highness, is there anything I can do?" She thought for a while before answering.  
  
"When I return to Armenelos, I must take up the scepter," she confided in him. "Afterward, I would have you accompany me to Eldalondë."  
  
"On royal business, I suppose," he sighed. His response was to be expected. Míriel pitied him; she had been quickly fleeing from place to place lately without much notice. It had been far too dangerous to travel alone, so her guard was forced to accompany her. It was not that she could not defend herself. She had been trained in the use of sword, bow, and dagger. As the King's Heir, she had received a beautifully crafted sword that she could wield quite effectively. The light, slightly curved blade hung at her side even now. She remained in danger as long as she was the sole heir to the throne. That was why she traveled with a full company of armed guards all across the land. It was the price she had to pay for her safety. Besides, it put her at ease. No one could feel unsafe with Aldancar and his men nearby.  
  
She corrected the chief guard's false assumption, a tiny bit of joy breaking through the ice around her heart. "No. My business in Eldalondë is of a personal matter."  
  
"For your Father?" he asked her, still not understanding. She nodded.  
  
"Yes, for my father. For Númenor. For myself. No more fear." Even as she spoke, the arrow pierced the peace of the day, and Aldancar fell from his horse, dead. 


	6. The Darkness

Author's Note: This is a warning. This story will get much darker as it progresses and deal with issues that are not for young readers. I'm not sure if it's enough to change the rating, because there will be nothing explicit, but things are implied. This story deals with violence, a non-consensual marriage, and other dark material. As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome. Feel free to point out errors!

The Darkness  
3255, Second Age  
Location Unknown  
  
Míriel had never been so afraid. Her throat was raw from screaming, and she was a bloody mess. It was not cold in the little room, but she was shivering all the same. She knew not how long she had been held prisoner here. When she was first brought here, bound and blindfolded, she had screamed and fought her captors as best she could. In here, they had cut her free and left her alone in the darkness. She had managed to take off her blindfold, only to find the room had no window, no candle, and no light.  
  
Running from wall to wall, she had beaten against the sides of the room, pleading for help. No one had come and she had grown tired. At last, she had collapsed into dreamless sleep, shock and exhaustion taking their toll. When she woke, it was still dark and she knew not how long she had slept, only that she was hungry. That meant nothing; she had eaten little between Tar-Palantir's death and burial.  
  
Now she was left in the dark, a darkness that made it all to easy for her mind to be filled with dark images. The memories became clear visions in the darkness. Númenor's Queen curled up in a corner, rocking back and forth and trying to banish the truth. She was the only one left alive. She had watched trusted friends die to protect her. That memory would be with her forever.  
  
After the first arrow had felled Aldancar, her men had rallied around her, shields up. One handed her the fallen captain's shield. It was heavy for her, but she managed to use it as best she could. She had been resolved to make their attackers pay for the death of her captain and friend. More arrows came, mostly aimed at the horses now. At last, they had been forced to dismount.   
  
That was when their attackers showed themselves. Tall dark haired men riding black horses descended upon Míriel's party like eagles swooping down to capture their prey. Valiantly, the royal guard fought to keep her from harm, but they were no match for these murderers. At last, Míriel had found herself alone, standing amidst the bodies of her friends and foes. She could still hear the sound of her sword swinging through the air, the terrible sound of metal on flesh and bone. She had killed a man.  
  
That man would haunt her all her life. She had no other choice but to defend herself, yet that did not change the way he died there on the side of the road, by her hand. Even in self defense, his death seemed to be a stain on her soul. She had gone into shock, unable to keep fighting. All she could do was stare down at the dead man on the ground. She had killed. How could soldiers be so unaffected by such an action? How could these men enjoy it?  
  
At last, the sword had been knocked from her hands. All her men had been slain. She had been alone, surrounded, and terrified. They overpowered her easily. For a woman of the line of Elros, she was small in stature, and the shock bound her tighter than any chains ever could. Roughly, they bound her hands and feet. Then they had blindfolded her with a dark cloth so she could see nothing. Míriel could remember being thrown up onto a horse as the men laughed. These men laughed at death and left their fallen comrades on the ground to rot with the bodies of the royal guard.  
  
How could human beings be capable of such cruelty? Míriel couldn't begin to comprehend it. Why would they commit such a heinous act? The answer soon became obvious. Who else but the King's Men would delight in the slaying of the Faithful? And who else would profit from her capture? Only Pharazôn.  
  
She should have realized it earlier. When she left the capital, she had only thought of Palantir. Her cousin knew that her father was her greatest weakness; she had revealed that to him in Andunië. Pharazôn's plan could not have been more perfectly crafted. All the uproar of the past three weeks must have been specifically designed for one purpose: to be a grievance to the King. When he was in Andunië, Pharazon could have organized his men to be sure that news of every problem reached Palantir's ears.  
  
Míriel knew she was not blameless in this. It had been foolish not to take up the scepter and consolidate her power as soon as she had returned with her father's body. She never should have allowed Pharazôn to know how weak she was when it came to her family. Would he strike Elendil next? No, she reassured herself. He and Amandil might be somewhat estranged, but respect for the other endured despite loss of friendship. What she did not understand was why they had not yet killed her. Once she was dead, the throne would go to her cousin. Without proof of her death, Pharazôn would not be able to claim what he so obviously desired. Why was she here? Did they hope to starve her to death or drive her mad? Perhaps it was simply that her cousin could not bring himself to kill her directly and hoped that she might die as her father did, of grief and madness here in the darkness.  
  
Míriel knew not her fate. She would live or she would die. It was out of her hands now. When the time came, she swore to face the end with dignity. Now, all she could do was sit in the dark and wait. After a long while, she stopped shivering. So tired… She should sleep again, but she feared the dreams that might come.  
  
Instead, she began to pray, first to Lorien and then to Illúvatar. The sound of her voice was strange after so long in silence. It was almost comforting to hear some noise in this abyss. Even when her prayer was through, she kept talking to fill the emptiness. She talked to her father and to her beloved, begging them for forgiveness. She talked to Elendil, pleading for him to help her if he could. She even spoke to Pharazôn, cursing him for what he had done. At last, sleep took her and Míriel surrendered herself to the growing weariness.  
  
She was awoken by a scuffle in the hallway. Pulling herself to her feet, she tried to think quickly. If they opened the door, she could try to dart out past them and escape. A rush of excitement swept through her as she prepared to flee. Carefully, she climbed to her feet and moved along the wall. Carefully feeling the stone with her hands, she came to the door. Taking a few steps backwards, her body tensed with anticipation. The noise of the fighting outside decreased, and she wondered if there might be a rescuer out there.  
  
Now she had some hope, but she was still resolved to run. It seemed an eternity before all sounds of the scuffle stopped, and footsteps heralded someone's approach. There was the sound of rattling keys, and then one was put into the door and turned. The lock clicked and the door swung open. Míriel was blinded by a sudden rush of light. Still, she took off, darting towards the door.  
  
As she ran, she stumbled blindly over a protruding stone. Putting out her arms to break her fall, she cursed her failure. She never hit the ground. Someone caught her as she fell, and held her up. She was almost able to see again. Who was it that had caught her? Would they throw her back into the darkness, or were they here to rescue her?  
  
Then, the person spoke, and Míriel needed not see to recognize who it was that had caught her. "Do not fear. I have come to set you free," a deep voice reassured her. She tore herself away from him, backing into the dark room.  
  
"Get away from me, Pharazôn." Her eyes began to adjust, and she could see him now, the light of a large window shining behind him. His face was neutral and he heeded not her words, but stepped towards her again.  
  
"You are distraught, no doubt, but you needn't fear me." His words had no effect on her. She kept backing away from him, and he followed her. When Míriel realized this, another plan formed in her mind. The room was not very large, but she could keep backing away from him, drawing him away from the doorway. She was almost ready to dash for the door when he realized what she was doing and moved to block her escape. "You don't understand, Míriel…"  
  
"I understand," she spat at him. "All this is your doing." He shook his head in denial.  
  
"There are some men in Númenor who would not have you as queen. Those are the ones that kidnapped you." If he thought she believed him, then he was a greater fool than she thought he was. His lies were too obvious.  
  
"You insult me cousin, if you expect me to believe one word that falls from your lips. I have had time enough to think on what has happened." Her throat was dry and it hurt to speak, but now she must speak and learn if what she had conjectured was true. In her faint and scratchy voice, she addressed him as forcefully as she could. "I should be dead. The only reason that I yet live is because you will not have me killed because of your relation to me. Tell me, is this true?"  
  
She watched him consider her words. Inside, Pharazôn was debating whether to end his façade or attempt to convince her that his lies were truth. His frustrations were visible to her keen eyes. Doubtless he was ruing the fact that Míriel's captivity had had the opposite effect he had hoped for. "It is true," he said at last.  
  
"Then you will have the scepter, I suppose. Do you think I will surrender it willingly? I am still Queen of Númenor…" She drew herself up to her full height, gathering all her dignity and majesty about her. He only laughed at her pitiful attempt at intimidation.  
  
"What power do you think you have over me?" A sense of dread filled her as he spoke. "The King's Men now rule Armenelos. Any ally you might have had is no longer in any position to fight my people. We rule the army, the majority of Númenor's cities, the merchants, the people… Did you think the reign of one king could change the destiny of Númenor."  
  
"The reign of one king has the power to save or destroy this isle. You will be a poor king if you do not realize that." Although her last words rebuked him, her first seemed to spill from her subconsciously. However, her thoughts did not dwell on her own words, but on his. Were her Faithful allies safe? Had they suffered the same fate as Aldancar and her other guards? Was there any hope?  
  
If Pharazôn was truthful, then she had little hope of stopping him. Míriel realized then how powerless she truly was. Her life was at his mercy, her land would fall to his tyranny, and the Faithful would be forced to fall back into the shadows. In one moment, she felt as if all she and her father had worked for had crumbled away. Anger stirred within her and she clenched her fists. What could she do? Was there anything, even the smallest and most futile act, that could keep this from befalling her beloved Númenor?  
  
"You are a despicable man, Pharazôn," she rasped. He stopped laughing at her, his composure becoming more serious.  
  
"Do not say that, please. I do what I must do, what the people demand of me. The people want us in power." Míriel only shook her head in disgust. It was no lie, but neither was it any justification for what he had done. Her cousin only sighed and took another step towards her.  
  
She watched as he drew her pendant out of a pocket. The mithril swan dangled on the edge of a chain, drawing her eyes to it immediately as it caught what little light came into the room. "Why haven't you worn this?" he demanded.  
  
"If I could, I would forget you and all you have done. Why would I wear a constant reminder of the misery you have created?" came her retort. The pendant was beautiful, but every time she saw it, she could only think of him and how he had looked at her in Andunië. It made her shiver, and she had hidden it away in a box in her quarters. That meant he had gone through her personal possessions to find it… It was petty, but it was yet another violation, yet another wrong he had done her. How much more humility would she be forced to endure?  
  
"I would have you wear it." It was no request; it was a command. She knew not what to do. Should she take it from him and let it be the end of the matter? No, she decided quickly, giving in to him was not an option.  
  
"I will have nothing to do with your games, Pharazôn. If you have come to kill me, then stop toying with me and do it, coward." She could not let him rob her of her dignity as well as her life. If she was destined to die, Míriel told herself, she would determine the manner in which she left this world, a daughter of Elros to the last.  
  
"You are so sure I wish you dead," he remarked, incredulous that she would ever suggest such a thing to him. "I have never lied to you, Míriel. I came to free you from this place."  
  
"To what end?" she demanded. "You have killed my father. Your men have poisoned the minds of my people. Now you take everything I have from me. What is left for me? What am I to do? What is to become of me?" He said nothing to that, only looked down at the pendant in his hand. "Why have you done this Pharazôn?" Her voice was nearly hysterical, it demanded an answer. It was then that he looked at her as he did in Andunië, in such a way that a chill raced down her spine.  
  
"The King's Men were meant to have this power. We are the rightful rulers of this isle. An accident of birth is all that kept my father from his rightful throne. The laws and traditions of Númenor are relics. They were not written for the times we live in. Númenor and its people must take their proper place and demand their proper dues. To have such power and waste it as your father did is unforgivable."  
  
"You will be King, then, and I… I…" He nodded, his face unreadable. His eyes still burned into her, and she found that she could not hold his gaze for long. Her throat ached from speaking so much and so forcefully. She was hungry, weary, and her heart was ready to break with grief. Yet if the choice lay between trusting her cousin and remaining here in her current state, she would remain here. What would her life be worth if she were nothing but a puppet of Pharazôn?  
  
"What will become of me?" she murmured, more to herself than to him. A brief hope kindled in her heart as she imagined a quiet life in Eldalondë. Even if that did become her fate, however, she knew she could never be truly content knowing that Númenor would fall back under the tyranny of the King's Men. There was no bright future anymore. She stared down at the ground, still mumbling to herself. "If I am not queen…"  
  
Suddenly, Pharazôn moved forward and clasped the mithril swan around her neck. "No, Míriel." He lifted her chin so their eyes met and sighed. "Justly were you named. You are like a jewel, so cold, but so brilliantly beautiful. A jewel you shall remain forever more, unchanged, the jewel in my crown. You shall be Queen of Númenor, my lady, the most glorious queen that has ever graced the halls of Armenelos."  
  
Everything seemed to come to a stop. She had not known, had not foreseen… She could not… Míriel was completely bewildered. Her cousin ignored her silence, the fire in his grey eyes growing even fiercer.  
  
"Do you know how many years I have loved you, unrequited? Seventy eight years I have waited, seventy eight years I have watched you grow lovelier, as if you did so only to spite me. You despise me, I know, but your spite can never be stronger than my ardor. Now I have you here before me, and I will dare to speak the name I have whispered into the night for seventy eight long years. Zimraphel. My Zimraphel." He bent his head down to kiss her, and she summoned what remained of her strength. Míriel strove to twist away from him, but he tightened his grip on her chin so that breaking free of him was impossible. His lips captured hers for a brief moment, and then he released her.  
  
She stumbled way from him, shaking her head. "No. This cannot be. I cannot… We are cousins… By law…"  
  
"Law?!" he roared at her. "Law? I am King. The law will be stricken down if it stands in my way. What is law compared to love? I love you, Zimraphel, and I will have you as my wife. I care not who or what bars my way. I have waited long enough, and I will not be denied any longer."  
  
Her mind was frantic, still reeling from the horror of his words. It seemed to her as if everything that was certain in life were changing, as if she were standing on the brink of a sea of chaos. And she was dangerously close to falling… "What will… If… Do you think… How could you imagine that I would consent to this… to this…" There was no power, no force behind her words. The woman sounded like a frightened child, not a queen of Númenor. Pharazôn paid no heed to her objections.  
  
"I care not whether you will consent or no. Seventy eight years I have waited, hoping that I might kindle in you some love for me, that you might consent. I will wait no longer for you. The time has come, and you will be my queen, my jewel, my Zimraphel."  
  
All reason left her. The small woman flew at him with blind desperation. Her only goal was to wrap her hands around his throat and to squeeze the life from him. She cared not if he struck her down. She would kill him or be killed, but she would not let him take her.  
  
He was not expecting her sudden attack, and therefore did not defend himself in time. Her hands closed around his neck and began to tighten around it. Míriel never hesitated; her mind was set on destroying him however she could. It was not long, though, before he struggled with her, trying to loosen her grip. He tore her hands away from him and held them safely down at her sides as she kept trying to break free of his grasp.  
  
Pharazôn was strong, too strong for her to fight him and win. She struggled and fought with him like a trapped bird, flailing and kicking and shaking, but it did her no good. She was ensnared in his net every time. He had her wrists so firmly that she could not get free. Even as she stomped and kicked at his feet and legs and writhed wildly to try and break free, he held onto her. His grip was crushing her, hurting her, but he still held tightly to her as if to let her go would be to let go of his very life.  
  
"Please do not do this," he begged her as she struggled against him. His voice was almost pleading. "I will not let you go. I can not let you go." Míriel was growing weary, her strength failing her. Her head began to spin and she fought to maintain her consciousness, refusing to give in to him so easily. At last, it was beyond her will. She had not the strength to resist him any longer. No tears spilled from her eyes.  
  
He could take her life, her scepter, her freedom, but he would not take her dignity. She would not weep before him. Her words spilled from her, using the last strength she had. "I will curse you every day of my life." To her great surprise, his eyes betrayed another emotion, one she had never thought to see. His anger no longer ruled him. She could almost feel a pain and sorrow growing within him when she spoke, as if every word from her lips was an arrow piercing him to the core.  
  
"I would have you love me, Zimraphel, but whether you love me or not, you will be mine until the end of days." His words spun in her mind as the world seemed to spin around her.  
  
"Then may the end of days come swiftly upon us."  
  
End of Part One: Daughter of Numenor


	7. The Scepter

Part Two: The Growing Darkness  
  
The Scepter  
  
Armenelos  
  
3255, Second Age  
  
She sat on the throne beside him, looking out into a sea of disdainful faces. Pharazôn sat on the royal throne, robed in gold and holding the scepter of Númenor. An arrogant smile on his face, he continued to address his people on the new economic policies. Míriel had long ceased to listen. She felt ill sitting here, as all she had done was undone before her very eyes.  
  
Many of the people in the audience were staring at her as well, hatred in their eyes. Pharazôn had not lied when he said she was kidnapped by men who did not want her to be queen. In the days after the announcement of her marriage to her cousin, there had been widespread uproar. The King's Men had hoped that she would be killed, that the problem would be eliminated. She wondered how foolish they had to be to accept the story that Pharazôn fed them.  
  
He had explained to his people that he was marrying her to secure his right to the throne. A foolish excuse indeed! If she were dead, then the scepter would fall to him. It was not as if her marriage to him gave him any of the Faithful's support. In truth, it had the opposite effect. Most of her people were either enraged or terrified. Countless people had already fled the island to escape the coming persecution, and more left from Rómenna every day. Guilt welled within her. It had been her responsibility, her duty to make this land safe for its people, and she had failed.  
  
Her entire life seemed to be a failure. What she had endured the past three months had shaken her to the core. Before her father's death, she thought she knew what suffering was. Now she knew the true meaning of the word. She looked down at her wrists, so sore and bruised from fighting with her husband. The heavy beading around the hem of the sleeves weighed her arms down, it seemed. Or perhaps it was only the lack of conviction and the feeling of utter helplessness that held her here.  
  
Every day, she awoke without hope. She let the servants dress her in garments of silver and gold, let them arrange her hair into elegant coifs and braids, let them place the star of Erendis on her brow. She sat there like a doll, still and silent. Under Pharazôn's watchful eyes, she walked and ate and sat here in this accursed court. Inside, she felt as if she were dying, slowly and painfully. Míriel was drowning in her own mind, with no one to save her.  
  
She had nearly drowned as a child, swimming in Andunië. The tug of the undercurrent had pulled her down beneath the water, and she had panicked. Her father had told her to be careful, but she had refused to let Elendil swim farther out than her. She was no coward, after all. A foolish mistake… Surrounded by water, her lungs had burned for air. For a few moments, she had despaired, almost ready to take a breath in, even if it were water and not air. Then she felt her cousin pulling her up to the surface.  
  
"You cannot save me this time, Elendil. No one can," she thought to herself. Pharazôn was far too powerful. No help could come to her. She would not put anyone she loved in danger again. They would not die for her. This was her own battle; a battle she was losing. The fighting was pointless, but it was all she had left to cling to. Her husband grew weary of their constant struggle, but in the end, both of them knew the result. He would win, and have what he wanted from her, but she would deny him anything beyond what he could physically take from her. He would never have anything but hatred and bitterness from his queen, and she took some small comfort in reminding him of that fact every night.  
  
Perhaps he provoked her rage, for it was the only time she showed any emotion towards him. At all other times she treated him with bitter indifference. During the night, when they were alone in the grand chamber than looked west, they would rage and storm, no longer the lofty, cold monarchs they were in the throne room. It was a never ending struggle to see who would dominate, to see who held the power, and it was always Pharazôn who won out in the end.  
  
Futility: another word that had taken on its true meaning since this mockery of a marriage began. Míriel could hate her husband and resist him all she wanted, but she could not break free. She did not even have hope to cling to anymore. If only…  
  
Her attention was forced back to the throne room when she heard one of Pharazôn's counselors speak. "Many of them have fled, my lord Pharazôn. The Lord himself left last week, and most of his house left during the days that followed." She turned her gaze to the reporting counselor, taking in the news that she had been waiting to hear. She gripped the arms of her chair tighter, waiting for the King's reaction to the news.  
  
"Let them flee," Pharazôn laughed. "Faithful fools, all of them. I have long yearned to be rid of them, and it appears that I now have my wish. Eldalondë will have a new master now, one that will serve Númenor and its King with loyalty and respect." It was hard to keep herself from breathing a sigh of relief. They were safe then, bound for a land that had some hope to offer them.  
  
She loved Galisil. Every fiber of her being yearned for his safety, yearned for him to be beyond the malice of Pharazôn. She had taken the chance and sent word to him to flee, not only for his own sake. It was selfish, really, but she would never sleep until she knew that they were safe. Her eyes fluttered shut briefly, and she could see the boat sailing away from Rómenna, carrying her hope and love into the east. For so many, hope lay in the west, but it would never be so for Míriel. All her hope went east, to the free shores of Middle Earth. No hope dwelt in her own heart anymore. The only thing she could do now was place all her hope in others.  
  
She had sent Galisil to Middle Earth herself, begged him to go, but hearing the words changed her in a way she had not foreseen. Míriel felt drained of emotion, empty. What was it like, to be a body without a spirit? A shell. That was all she was; an empty shell lying on the beach, in danger of being swallowed by the high tide.  
  
Pharazôn looked over at her, observing her strange mood. Then he waved away his counselors, signaling that he was done with them. "Shall we retire for the evening, my lady?" the King asked, his tone carefully formal. She nodded absently, and they both rose from their seats in the grand hall. As he took her hand and led her along the carpet that led towards the door, her mind was hundreds of miles away.  
  
It was dinner that they headed to next. Míriel picked at her food. She pushed it around her plate idly but she had no appetite. In her mind, she was wondering how she could bear her husband's company tonight. Perhaps she could busy herself with her own work long enough to avoid him. Excusing herself from the table, she left for her study, two of Pharazôn's guards trailing behind her. They had not trusted her after her last disappearance.  
  
She had tried to escape before, but all attempts so far had been unsuccessful. Pharazôn had too many spies, too many allies that would spot her. Once, she had even secured a place on a ship bound for the free shores of Middle Earth. While the crew was preparing to depart, Pharazôn himself had come, escorted by countless guards and soldiers. They had found her and taken her back to Armenelos. That was when she realized the truth: he would never let her go. If she managed to escape aboard a ship, he would follow her to Middle Earth. No matter where she went, he would follow her.  
  
Now she was wiser. She no longer tried to escape from Pharazôn, just tried to steal time from him. Every opportunity she could find to work or travel, she took it. To her surprise, she had even convinced him to allow her to go to the peak of Meneltarma on the three holy days. There were few Faithful now that would dare to go to the summit, for doing so would reveal their beliefs and expose them to persecution. She went, and said her prayers to Illúvatar. Sometimes she wondered, as she watched the eagles circle overhead, if he was still listening. There were times when she almost doubted it, but then she heard her father's voice in her head. "Everything is by His will, even that which seems dark and terrible. Good will always emerge from darkness; that is His doing."  
  
It was so easy to lose hope. At times, she wondered how many of the people still held their convictions. How many Faithful remained on the isle? Although she did not want to admit it, Míriel knew the answer to her question. Not enough. There were not enough of them left to hold any hope of rebellion.  
  
Before setting to work in her own quarters, she went to her wardrobe to shed the royal regalia. She despised feeling like a doll, always looking the way her husband wanted her to. She hated being a display of his wealth and power. Her ladies in waiting tried to "bring out her beauty," as they called it. Míriel no longer cared for beauty. She just wanted something comfortable and familiar.  
  
It was not long before she managed to shoo away the attendants that rushed in to help her. Putting on a more comfortable and simple blue gown, she savored the silence. On her husband's orders, she was never alone. She craved this tranquility, desired nothing more than to sit and work without the back of her neck prickling because she knew she was being watched. They did not trust her anymore. That was her own fault as well. She certainly had given them good cause to distrust her. The thought was not entirely distasteful. She had come so close, so many times…  
  
As she moved into her study and looked down at the letters scattered across her deck, her lips curled in a bitter semblance of a smile. No letter openers any more… Pharazôn had nearly met his doom on the point of a letter opener several months before, during the first of her attempts to gain her freedom. Since then, her guards had been meticulous about keeping her from any sort of blade. All her correspondence came opened, thoroughly read and copied, most likely.  
  
It had come as a surprise to her how much control Pharazôn offered her over the government. She was entrusted with much of the day to day affairs, with most domestic policy, and with anything that her husband found too difficult to handle himself. It kept her busy enough. At least she was allowed to put a lifetime of training to use. Although her name would never be recorded in the book of Kings, although she would never hold the scepter, she was still Númenor's queen.  
  
Most of the letters were reports or accounts for her day to day work. She read through each one completely, writing responses where necessary. At the bottom of the pile lay a letter bearing the insignia of the noble house of Andunië. Instantly, she knew the author by their handwriting. "Elendil…"  
  
Quickly, she opened the letter and began to read. It was the first correspondence she had from him since she had left Andunië after her father's death. The familiarity was comforting although the letter itself held very little information that could bring her any happiness. Elendil carefully inquired after her health and happiness, but Míriel knew him well enough to discern the emotion behind the words. He was worried for her, terrified that great harm had befallen her. He was angry, not just at Pharazôn, but at himself for not doing anything to protect her.  
  
So little was said. It was too dangerous to reveal his bias. At the moment, it was crucial that the Lord of Andunië maintain a credible position in the King's court. Elendil wrote that Amandil was coming to Armenelos after Midsummer, and Míriel was grateful. An ally in the court would be a gift, but it would be even better to have someone she could confide in. These past few months had been so lonely. This was the first time her cousin had dared to contact her. They had to be careful.  
  
Doubtless Celaurien had schooled him in the art of concealment. Míriel thought she recognized the lady's phrasing at times. Her cousin's wife was an expert at saying one thing but meaning another. From the tone of the letter, Elendil did not want to conceal his feelings. That was her cousin, indeed, she thought to herself.  
  
Elendil was a noble man. If he thought someone was in danger, he would try to save them. He seemed to believe that it was his duty to save the world. "You cannot save everyone," she muttered quietly. "Least of all me." It was too heavy a burden for one man to carry, she thought to herself. Elendil carried too many burdens these days, and she found herself worrying for him. He would have to accept what he could not change, or he would not be able to face Númenor's future. She would not let him face her father's fate, to be weighed down by grief. She could not lose him, too.  
  
Miriel knew that the days would only grow darker. The worst was yet to come. She could feel it in her bones, down to her core. Pharazôn's new regime was terrible, the old fear returning to the isle. Once he gained complete power, he would begin to enforce some of his more radical plans. Did she have the strength to temper his power? She did not know. If she didn't then she would be forced to watch as her home fell further into the grip of that blasphemous man.  
  
She tried to turn her thoughts to the letter, and her family in Andunië. Her love had fled, but her family remained. Tracing the lines of ink, she felt eternally grateful to her cousin. He had always been there for her. They had been best of friends as children, slowly walked the path to adulthood together, had watched each other grow and become great and powerful people. He had been forced to watch her fall. That hurt her more than anything. What must he have thought when he heard the news? Did he suspect that she might have consented? Did he fear that she had been harmed?  
  
At least her father was not alive to see this, to see how low his beloved daughter had fallen. All his life, he had endeavored to build a nation that he could leave to her safely. His only desire was to see his line continue, to see the tree grow again and the eagles return to nest in the King's tower. So few of his prayers had been granted. Perhaps Pharazôn was right, and the Valar had abandoned them. Even if that were so, Míriel reminded herself, Illúvatar remained.  
  
Somewhat comforted, the queen returned to her business. Hours passed, but she did not notice. She was so intent on her work that she did not hear the door to her study open, nor did she hear the soft footsteps that approached her chair. Suddenly, a warm hand rested itself on her shoulder. "You have done enough work for tonight, dearest. Leave the rest of it for the steward."  
  
"I'll just finish this stack of papers," Míriel evaded. "I would finish faster if you would leave me be. Can I not have a moment's peace from you?" Her husband did not seem to take her meaning, and hovered behind her still.  
  
"You have been working here for some time now, and the hour grows late. Come to bed, Zimraphel." She shook his hand off her shoulder and ignored him, continuing to write a recommendation to her staff about meeting the shepherd's demands in Emerië. However, Pharazôn seemed to have other intentions. He knelt behind her chair and swept the hair away from her shoulders so he could plant a soft kiss at the base of her neck.  
  
As swiftly as she could, she pushed the chair back, knocking the king to the ground. He cried out in anger, but she ignored that, too. "Is it not enough," she began, in the cold, indifferent voice she used to address him at such times, "that you force me to sit by your side during the day, unable to speak my mind. Is it not enough that you force me into your bedchamber each night? Is there no time when I might have some peace?" With a grimace, Pharazôn pushed himself up off the floor.  
  
"Forgive me for being worried about you," he spat. At that, she only laughed.  
  
"Worried about me?" She turned on him, a look of cool hatred in her eyes. "Are you worried about me, or only worried that you might not have my company tonight?"  
  
"My concern is not so selfish." He walked over at her and took her by the shoulders lightly. "There is something wrong with you, my love." Míriel only broke away from his flimsy grasp.  
  
"Do you dare to call me "my love"? If you truly loved me, you would leave me alone."  
  
"What?" "His voice raised, although not quite to the point of yelling. Her words made him angry. Anger was safe. Míriel could understand his anger, could deal with it. Love… That she could not come to terms with. Pharazôn was angry now, long suppressed words spilling from him. "If I love you, should I leave you to waste away in self-pity? You can not live on malice and spite alone, Zimraphel." He quickly maneuvered around her so he stood before her again. When she searched his eyes, she found true concern behind the anger. Her husband was far too complicated for her to understand.  
  
"Why do you worry about me, husband? Am I not a satisfactory wife? Am I not what you expected?"  
  
"You are not eating," he told her bluntly. "I watch you. You think I won't notice, but I do. You are getting too thin, and…"  
  
"Oh my. I wouldn't want to ruin my perfect figure," she snapped. "I wouldn't want to be anything less than perfect for my lord and master."  
  
"It is not that I am concerned for. You will fall ill, Zimraphel, if you do not start eating. And you must rest at night. You toss and turn in your sleep, and the guards tell me that you have taken to wandering the halls in the hours before sunrise."  
  
"If I have nightmares, dearest husband, they are your doing." He frowned at her, turning towards the window.  
  
"What else must I do?" he pleaded, not looking at her. "Have I not treated you with respect, made you a great and powerful queen? I could have locked you away in a bower. I could have had you killed. Yet I made you my queen, I gave you power over the island's internal affairs, and I have loved you. What more do you demand from me?"  
  
"Kill me, then. Lock me away. It does not matter." Her words were bleak and quiet. She would not look at him any longer. His words confused her still, and at the same time, infuriated her. "I have given you my kingdom, surrendered to you all my freedom and hope. Do not demand love from me. Do not demand that I be happy in this life of misery you have created for me. You have me. That must be enough for you."  
  
"It is not enough," he answered her. "I have from you only what I can take. Is there nothing you would give to me, my dearest wife? Nothing you would give to me of your own free will?"  
  
"Only my hatred." With that, she left the room, shutting the door behind her. She would not argue with him any longer. Hatred… That she felt in abundance. Yet deep within the reaches of her heart, she wondered if she did not halfway pity Pharazôn. He cared for her in his own twisted way. Still, her remote pity was not enough to give in to him. Nothing could overcome her bitterness now.  
  
Walking aimlessly, she thought over the words that had been said in the study. Love. He knew nothing of love. Sometimes, it seemed to her that love was only pain. That was all that love had ever caused her. Perhaps it did not matter if she lived or died. What did she have left to live for? A life filled with these little spats, a life filled with pain and emptiness. There was nothing left for her anymore. Perhaps she should just give in…  
  
Míriel found herself at the door to the royal bedchamber. In one thing, Pharazôn was right. She was tired to the bone, weary of her life in this new world. He would return to this room before long, she knew. Suddenly, she did not care. Let him come. Let him take her in his arms as he always did. Did it even matter anymore? There was no more pain he could cause her that she had not already endured. Nothing mattered anymore. She had no tears left to cry, and no hope left to cling to. Elendil's letter was forgotten, and all Míriel could remember were her husband's pleading words.  
  
Author's Note: I am searching for a beta reader to help edit this monster. I need someone who knows their Alkallabeth pretty well, and can tell me if I'm being inconsistent or out of character. Either that, or just someone to give me some suggestions and grammar help would be nice. If anyone is interested, email me at chryseisdaol.com. 


	8. The Summit

The Summit  
  
Meneltarma  
  
3255, Second Age  
  
Míriel stood atop the Meneltarma, staring over at the Witnesses of Manwë. The great eagles were perched on the western edge of the mountain, always watching… There was nowhere she could go to escape the feeling of being watched. At least here, no human eyes stared at her. Her guards would not ascend the holy mountain. They waited at the foot of the path for her. They did not need to follow her. Her bargain with Pharazôn was a better guard than any man he sent to look after her. If she betrayed his trust, then she would never be allowed to go again to the mountain.  
  
The summer sun beat down upon the mountain peak. Midsummer was only a few days past, and the mountain was quiet. She was alone, save the eagles. They stared at her, as if they knew why she was here. Their eyes seemed to pierce right through her, as if they could see every secret she kept hidden. Quickly, she prayed for forgiveness.  
  
Even prayer could not make her feel clean. Nor could any amount of water or scrubbing make her clean, even if she scrubbed her skin red and raw. She could not scrub away months of shame. There was nothing she could do. Míriel felt so helpless, desperate to find something she could control.  
  
The petty day to day business she was allowed to deal with was a farce. It gave her no power. Her duties were less important than that of a steward's. Pharazôn was trying to appease her, trying to blind her to the truth. She looked up at the great birds that stared at her and envied them their ability to fly. If only she could be like Elwing and throw herself into the arms of the Valar, to be a bird and fly away from this nightmare. It was not so. She was a bird with clipped wings, which was even more painful than being kept in a cage.  
  
An end… That was all she wanted now. She wanted this pain to end. Every day, she found herself wondering how much longer she could endure the life she was forced to live. Now she was grateful that she was no elf, for she knew that she could not endure an eternity of this life. Not even half a year had passed since her father's death, and knowing that she faced another century of such pain brought her no comfort. She was not strong enough to endure 100 years of this, when she was already weary after a mere six months.  
  
She drew her secret out of the folds of her gown: her savior, her triumph. The rays of the summer sun danced on the brilliant steel. Her guards had been careless today, one of them leaving a dagger lying on a table. It was an opportunity she would not have again. As carefully as she could, Míriel snatched it from the table and concealed it, then left the room quickly. The guards followed, mumbling about the odd habits of the queen. They did not think to pick up the dagger that had been left.  
  
It had been lying on the table like a sign, making plain the course of action that would set her free. How many times had she baited her husband, how many times had she dared him to kill her? Wasn't death better than this life? She thought of her father again. His life had been so dark, towards the end. Then he had died, and his face was so peaceful. She envied that peace, craved it with all her heart. She would take that peace for herself since her husband would not grant it to her.  
  
How many nights had she willed her life to end? With each kiss of her husband, she had wished to simply die, to do anything to escape the world she lived in. Yet her will was not strong enough to send its spirit to Illúvatar without the deterioration of its house. Her death would require a different act of will.  
  
Death. The word was so liberating. When she was dead, she would not have to watch as her island's decline. She would never have to look upon Pharazôn again. That made her smile. Never, ever again would her husband touch her, look at her, or speak to her. What would he say when he knew that she was beyond his reach forever? His emotions would be mixed, she decided. First, he would be angry with her, with her guards, and most likely with himself for ever making the deal with her. He would regret her loss; maybe he would even feel some sort of grief. This would show him what pain was and repay him for all the pain he had caused her.  
  
What would her family say, though? Amandil was coming to the city, hoping to offer her comfort. Yet how could she tell him that nothing he could say or do would bring her any comfort? There was no other choice for her. Miriel realized as she stared down at the dagger that her death would hurt more than her husband. Elendil would not understand; he would probably feel responsible for not doing something to prevent her death. She didn't want to hurt him; she only wished that he could understand that this was the only way she could escape. Perhaps Celaurien would know: wise Celaurien who always could reveal what had been concealed. Her family would be live through this. She was sure of it.  
  
Besides her few kinsmen in Andunië, what did she have left to live for? Everyone who mattered to her was safe, and yet they were also lost to her. Her father was dead. All her power had collapsed. The people she should have ruled had fallen under the shadow of fear once more. Even the white tree did not have the same light it once had. Everything she had held dear was lost to her. Surely it would be easy to let it all go. There was something so much greater waiting for her.  
  
Her father had always taught her that death was nothing to fear. He had given up his own life, hadn't he? He had left a world of pain for one of light and hope. No more fear. She had promised him that before he passed away. Now it was time to fulfill that oath. Soon she would be with him. It would be wonderful to see his face and hear his voice again. Her mother, too. She could hardly remember more than Rilwen's face and smile anymore. Over a hundred years she had missed her mother, and now she had the chance to be with her once more.  
  
"I am one of the Faithful, a daughter of Elros, and I am not afraid." She spoke aloud, as if to reassure herself. Then she raised the dagger and wondered how she would do it. Should she drive it into her heart? That would be dramatic, although she doubted her strength. As she held out her hand, she could almost hear the blood pulsing through her veins. Her skin was pale and the veins of her wrist stared up at her, a faint blue beneath their sheath of ivory. She poised the dagger above her wrist. Yes… This would be effective.  
  
The eagles cried, and flapped their wings as she moved her weapon. They did not move, only stared at her with a piercing glare. No one brought weapon or tool to the peak of the Meneltarma. No blood had ever been shed here. It was a blasphemy to do so, but she had no other choice. It was the only way. She stared back into their intense yellow eyes. "Forgive me," Míriel tried. "You have left me with no other choice. I have prayed to the Valar and Eru unceasingly for months. Is this not their gift? This chance…"  
  
They gave her no answer. All they did was stare at her. They were only witnesses, not Manwë himself. They could neither forgive nor condemn her. Even so, she could almost feel the disapproval they exuded. "Do not dare to shed blood in this holy place," they seemed to say. "Do not seek to end your life until you can give it up by the force of your will alone." Míriel turned away from their gaze. This was her life to spend as she so chose. She was no elf to be bound to the circles of the world. She was free to leave it, and like a true daughter of Elros, she would choose her time.  
  
Quickly, she told herself. She must do it quickly. It was so simple. Draw the blade through the soft flesh of her arm, wait as the blood spilled upon the mountain top, wait for her spirit to abandon its miserable life here and travel beyond to where it would dwell in eternal peace. It was so easy.  
  
And yet it was so difficult. What if she did not do it properly? What if she survived her attempt? Then Pharazôn would know her intentions, and what little freedom she had now would be wrested from her. She could not afford to fail, yet she could not be sure that she would not fail. The queen tried to reassure herself. The Valar had given her a chance; surely they would not let her fail now. Besides, if she did not completely succeed, it would surely be easier for her to will her spirit out of a body that was nearly drained of all its lifeblood.  
  
She had to do it now, before any other distractions stayed her hand. She did not have time for distractions. If she waited, then she would lose her will. A tiny nagging voice interrupted her. If she was having any doubts, then should she go through with this? Once she acted, she could not take it back. She would have to accept whatever came of it, failure or success. Was she ready to take that risk?  
  
"It is the only choice. There is no other way," she muttered. The doubt did not fade; it only strengthened. Was it the only way? She could try to kill her husband instead. When he slept he was vulnerable. She could end his life just as easily. Then she could take control again, couldn't she? If there was some other option, then she could not take her own life.  
  
This wasn't as honorable as she had thought it would be. It was a coward's death. She only wanted to die because she was not strong enough to endure her fate. She was running away from her life. Her own weakness should have warned her away from this fate. If she could not give up her life of her own will, then she had no right to take it through violence. This was wrong.  
  
It was an affront to Illúvatar, to bring a blade to this holy mountain. This was the Meneltarma, where life was praised. It was no place for death. Her blood would stain the mountain and make it as foul and unclean as she was. Would the eagles let her carry through with her plan, or would they protect the domain of their lord from being marred by a mere mortal? A more disturbing thought entered her mind. If she committed a crime against the Valar, against Illúvatar himself, would she be allowed the peaceful afterlife that her father had spoken of? Would she be denied all happiness, cast into a void as the Enemy had been?  
  
She lifted the knife away from her wrist, caught by her indecision. Her mind was tearing her apart, and she could not bring herself to do it. Until now, she had such conviction and confidence? Where had it gone? Hadn't she decided that this was the only way? Hadn't she known that this was her destiny?  
  
This was meant to be, she tried to reassure herself. Besides, her will was strong. She would do this, and nothing would stop her. It was her life to do with as she chose. This was the only way. It was her only choice. She had to do it. With a sudden rush of conviction, she set the knife point to her wrist The sudden sting when it bit through the skin startled her. Míriel quickly pulled the blade away, an automatic reaction. The knife had barely cut her, but the blood was already welling up from the cut.  
  
For what seemed an eternity, she just stood there and watched as a crimson rivulet rolled down her arm. She watched it fall to the ground, dripping onto the summit of the holy mountain. Míriel stared, her mind wrapped up in the sight of the blood. The eagles were silent. They only stared at the dark haired woman who stood immobilized.  
  
"No." A whisper broke the silence after a long while. "No." The dagger clattered to the ground. The look on Míriel's face was one of complete despair, and there was fear in her eyes. She had realized the truth that lay behind all her doubt, and it had shaken her to her core.  
  
"I am no better than them," she murmured. "I am afraid. I cannot do it. I am too afraid…" For all her father's words, for all her pain, she could not bring herself to end her own life. She clung to life with an unexpected force. Seeing her own blood had made her realize it. She could not do it because she was afraid.  
  
How many times had she told herself that she did not fear death? So many times she had wondered if death was a better option than living this miserable life. Yet now that she tried, she felt a foolish desperation grow within her. It screamed at her not to hurt herself, to spare herself from death. Death was such a great unknown. At least she knew what to expect from life.  
  
No exertion of will could bring her to do it. She had not been able to will her spirit out of her body because she still loved life too much. There was still so much in this world that she loved: people, places, and things. Each one was like a chain, binding her to this life. Clinging to life was an emotional need, and yet it was also an instinct. It was said that all Men were imbued with a sense of self preservation; if given the choice, they would try to save their own lives. Those who overcame it and died for the greater good were heroes.  
  
Míriel was no hero. She was a coward. What hurt most was the realization that she was no different than the King's Men, those that she hated most. Her fear of death was no less than theirs. She was a disgrace to her father and her forefathers. Shame burned through her. Her father had such faith in her, had called her strong, said she would endure.  
  
She would only endure out of cowardice. Her weakness had been revealed. Looking down at the dagger, she was only reminded of her shame. Irrationally, she let out a cry of pain. Grabbing the blade, she hurled it off the mountain as hard as she could. The eagles began to screech, and spread their wings. They rose into the air and flew away, abandoning her to her own dark thoughts.  
  
After a while, she heard footsteps on the path that ascended the mountain. Her guards looked frustrated, as if climbing the Meneltarma was blasphemous. When they saw her, their eyes widened and they rushed over to her. "My lady! You are bleeding!" one exclaimed nervously. They felt no compassion for her. Their only concern was for the anger their master would direct at them if he knew they had allowed harm to come to her.  
  
Their queen stared at them for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was cold and harsh. "Yes, take me back down to him. Let him laugh at my shame. I deserve the scorn. I am no better than you. We are all doomed, doomed to lose the lives we so desperately cling to. The harder we cling to them, the more bitter it will be to lose them. We are doomed." 


	9. The Confession

The Confession  
  
Armenelos  
  
3257, Second Age  
  
Even the night could not bring peace to the royal chamber in Armenelos. Míriel struggled against her nightmares, mumbling something into her pillow. She did not hear the quiet voice that spoke to her and did not notice when two arms reached out to still her tossing and turning. In time, the dream faded, and all was quiet. Pharazôn let go of her and listened to the rhythmic pattern of his wife's breath.  
  
Sometimes he wondered if she was aware that he knew how frequently her dark dreams came upon her. She would never talk about them, but he could see the dread in her eyes when she woke in the morning. As always, she did not need to tell him anything. He saw it and knew. It woke him at night, her tossing and turning, even the occasional cries. He heard her startle and bolt upright in bed, heard her weep into her pillow as she cried herself to sleep again when she thought he could not hear her. Then she would lay still and he would listen for the silence that meant she was asleep once more. As soon as he was certain, he would close the distance between them and wrap her in his arms, whispering softly that no danger outside her dreams would ever trouble her while he lived. She would never know what he did in the darkest hours of the night. She would not understand.  
  
The moonlight streamed in, casting the shadow of the window frame across the room. He noticed that the moonlight was illuminating the face of his queen. In her fitful slumber, his lovely Zimraphel had shifted from her usual place. Every night, she put as much distance between them as soon as she could, curling on her side on the very edge of the bed with her back to him. Now she was lying on her back, her face turned towards him. She was so beautiful, the image of Lúthien. Most importantly, she was his.  
  
A deep feeling of satisfaction ran through him. To have her made him the most fortunate man in the world. He took in the sight of her pale face and the dark hair that lay like a shadow behind her. She looked as if she had been sculpted by an artist, perfect in every way. When she was awake, her eyes would sparkle like stars. Even after two years of marriage, she still took his breath away. He never let anyone know how dearly he held her in his heart. To be the king of Númenor was a victory, of course, but it was nothing compared with the victory of having Númenor's jewel as his bride.  
  
Yet that victory came not to him without a price, a price so terrible that Pharazôn still regretted it. He could see the bruises that darkened her ivory skin, remnants of yet another struggle they'd had last night. She knew he was stronger. Why did she always fight him? She was no danger: her wrists were tiny and he could wrap his hands firmly around them and prevent her from pushing him away or slapping him across the face. It was then that she hurt herself. He never wanted to hurt her. In ways, he admired her spirit and determination. Yet sometimes he was driven to do things he never wanted to do.  
  
How could he ever forget the one time he lost control? It still haunted him. They had been married barely more than a year, and he had brought up the prospect of a child. She had snapped at him and told him she would bear no child for him to poison with his lies. The argument grew more and more heated, turning into a raging storm of accusations and angry words. He had tried to end it and lead her off to bed. That only made things worse. When he reached out for her, she had slapped him across the face with all her strength. In blind anger, he acted before he could think. He hit her. He hit the woman he had loved for nearly eighty years.  
  
She would never know how horrified he had been at that moment. He had abruptly turned and left their chamber, fleeing to the solitude of his private study. Pharazôn remembered locking the door behind him and sinking onto the ground. So many emotions troubled him that night. Guilt- he had hit her and hurt her in his fury. Justification- she had struck him first and started the argument; she always fought him when he tried to show her how much he loved her. Pain- he did love her and wanted to keep her safe, yet he himself had harmed her. The horror of what he had done plagued him for days. Since that evening, he had never struck her again.  
  
She still fought him, but he never again let his anger rule his actions. As each day passed, the bitterness between them only grew. He began to dream of respite, yearning for the day when they no longer fought every time they were close to each other. "What would I give," he whispered softly into the silence, "for you not to flinch when I touch you? I wish with all my heart that you might willingly give me a son, so that I might see our line continued. What I want most, though, my dearest wife, is to hold you and hear you whisper "I love you" in my ear. Aye, that is all I could ever desire. But that will never come to pass, will it Zimraphel? You are made of adamant, and will never relent."  
  
He sighed and rose from their bed. Taking one last look at her, he wondered what a child of theirs would be like. He pictured the boy in his mind, his heir and son. The child would be tall and strong, like his father. His hair would be dark as night, and his eyes would sparkle like his mother's. He would have the pride and dignity of his line, and his mother's wisdom and love of learning. He would be a boy that would make his father proud, a true prince of the line of Eärendil. Until a son was born, Pharazôn lived in fear. What would happen if the line should die?  
  
There had been few children in the family of kings. His grandfather and great grandfather were both the only children in their families. The closest family he had now, save Zimraphel, was the Lord of Andunië. He had learned many lessons from the man. When Pharazôn served under him in the navy, he had come to respect Lord Amandil as a wise and insightful commander. Under him, he had learned what true leadership and loyalty was. He had learned about battle and war, but he also learned about generosity and how to win the hearts of men.  
  
Lord Amandil had been as good a councilor as he had been a captain and teacher. The king was glad he had come. His queen was glad also, and Pharazôn knew she took comfort in her kinsman's presence. His only regret was that Lord Amandil seemed to question his marriage. The Lord of Andunië was not the only one to do so.  
  
No one understood why he had taken Zimraphel as his wife instead of killing her and insuring that she was no longer an obstacle. Many of his advisors had expressed their concerns over his choice. They did not trust her motives and proclaimed her a Faithful witch, saying that she would stop at nothing to sabotage his rule. They most certainly did not agree with his decision to let her preside over many domestic affairs. His men were blinded by their prejudice and did not see how beneficial it truly was to make the crown princess a queen.  
  
She was raised to be queen, trained to govern the island since she was young. For years, she had served as the acting ruler when her father's health failed. There was none other in Númenor so fit to rule, save Pharazôn himself. Gimilkhâd had never given up hope that his father might name him successor. Therefore, he had been certain that his son received the proper training as well. Pharazôn was thankful his father had the foresight to order such training, for he used it every day.  
  
The governing of a nation as great as Númenor was no easy task. Tar-Palantir had tried to replace many advisors and ministers with Faithful fools, creating a difficult task for Pharazôn. He had to rebuild the court and restore the glory of Númenor after seventy eight years of decline. If he had been forced to concentrate on minor details, it never would have been possible. Zimraphel's work had allowed him to cleanse the island of the Faithful influence. His advisors refused to understand this point, claiming that the queen would never do anything to reverse her father's work.   
  
They were all wrong, and no one understood. Eventually, Pharazôn had decided that most of his advisors were fools. What he needed were loyal ministers to carry out his will and oversee what he could not do himself. He had the wisdom and power to rule this land. No one would tell him how to conduct Númenor's affairs.  
  
Pharazôn congratulated himself for being so successful thus far. He had taken a nation deprived of power for years and turned it around. The taxes he had instituted in Númenor's colonies were contributing once more to the island's great wealth. The standing army that Palantir nearly demolished was being rebuilt. Now, the King of Númenor was preparing his island for another golden age.  
  
He had great plans for the future. The people of Númenor would spread across Middle Earth, creating a vast empire of might and glory. Pharazôn had heard his wife's concerns for the growing population. She had wanted to divide up several estates to make room for the populace, but he had devised a better plan. There was room enough for the people of this island on the eastern shores. It was their nation's right to spread their culture across the world. The colonization was a natural progression.  
  
The elves were accounted great, and had they not done the same? As the king looked out the window towards the west, he knew that he was right in this. The elves had sailed from Valinor, the pinnacle of their power and might, and made colonies in Middle Earth that flourished and succeeded. Most of his men would be disgusted at the idea of emulating the elves, but Pharazôn was wiser than his men. The wise used history to their advantage, using it to be sure that they did not make the same mistakes that had doomed others and following in the footsteps of the mighty.  
  
His wife knew the history as well as he did, and yet she still disagreed with him whenever the subject of Numenorean colonies came up. Perhaps she was only eager to preserve the area around Pelargir, he mused. Many of the Faithful had fled there, and he had heard that they had united under the tentative leadership of the former Lord of Eldalondë. It was nothing to worry about. From reports, their main concern seemed to be surviving and building settlements in their new home. They were separated from Númenor forever, never to return. Besides, they had no military strength. It would be easy to ignore them.  
  
The Faithful had been his bane since he ascended the throne. All they did was cause trouble. He was fortunate that they were such a minute part of the population. It was easy to turn the majority against them and keep them in hand. Still, they had posed many problems for his new government. When many fled the island, their jobs were left empty. It did provide work and homes to reduce the crowding, but then there was the problem of training people to do a new job. The economy was strained in some places as city dwellers learned to be farmers and country laborers learned to be craftsmen. The King trusted his wife to handle such crises. Whenever he reviewed her decisions on the matter, he deemed them wise and well fitted to the situations at hand.  
  
His Zimraphel was truly a great queen, he thought to himself. Did the people of his party think he married her for her beauty alone? He had to admit that her beauty was what first drew him to her, but it was her intelligence and majesty he fell in love with. The King began to pace the room, old memories bringing a smile to his face. It had been eighty years since he had lost his heart to her, but the memory was undimmed by the years.  
  
When his grandfather died, the funeral had been magnificent. All his family was summoned to Armenelos for feasting, ceremonies, and an elaborate parade to the tomb in Noirinan. The day before King Gimilzôr was to be set in his tomb, Pharazôn had been walking in the gardens of his grandfather's palace. He had been thinking dark thoughts, worrying about the succession.  
  
The king looked over at his sleeping wife. She had changed little since he first saw her. The sun had been bright that day, shining down through the leaves of the trees. She had been standing beneath one of the trees, her dark hair spilling over her white gown. There was a faraway look in her grey eyes, as if she were remembering something. He, one of the bravest captains ever to command a ship, had not found the courage to approach her and kept his distance.  
  
Another woman had joined her before long, and then he had heard her voice for the first time. She had spoken of Andustar, of passing seasons and trees and the waves crashing against the shores. She had quoted poetry and history in her descriptions of her home, and he had not missed the longing in her voice. In that moment, he had fallen in love with her. She had been like a shining jewel, a vision of perfection. He had wondered who she was, or if she was even real at all.  
  
It was that evening that she was formally introduced to him. She begrudgingly called him cousin, and he called her by the same title. Yet in his mind, she became his Zimraphel, the only woman he would ever love. After their introduction, he had always hoped that he might change her judgment of his character. She based her opinion on hearsay, after all. He had been certain that once she truly knew him, she would love him as he loved her. His naïve hopes now made him wince. He had read too many legends as a child, to think that such a dream would ever be real.  
  
When he was young, he had striven to be worthy of her regard, had done all he could to please her and turn her attentions toward him. All of it had been in vain. At last, he had realized that it would take more than brave deeds to win the love of the princess. He would have to show her how he loved her and hope that she might someday return it.  
  
Now Pharazôn looked over at her and wondered if he had been right in taking her as his wife. She was so miserable and disagreeable now, always spouting angry insults or words of doom and despair. He wished that he could see her smile again. Yet he could not just let her leave him now. If she left him now, he could not imagine how he could go on living. It was enough, just to know that he had her in some small way.  
  
There were many years yet to come for them, Pharazôn thought to himself. In time, she would come to her senses. Zimraphel was a wise woman who adapted herself to her situation and all the changes that came with it. It was only a matter of time before their fights would become rare. It was only a matter of time before she would tire of being so sullen and bleak. Perhaps one day, they would be able to live with each other in peace.  
  
Peace. It was such an alluring concept. Pharazôn was so weary of quarreling with his wife and advisors. He wished that he had some escape, some comfort in his life. Someday he would have it, he promised himself. Until then, he had much work to do. Tomorrow, he had to visit a new training camp in Hyarrostar. Before peace could be achieved, there were many battles to be fought, and battles required a mighty army.  
  
Looking over at the door that led to his study, he considered going in and deciding on an effective strategy for the royal navy along Middle Earth's coast. He was already headed for the door when he heard a mumbling from behind him. Turning, he looked back at Zimraphel. Another dream had come upon her now, and she turned onto her side, her beautiful features disappearing into the darkness. The king sighed. There were more important things than brooding over the movement of ships, he supposed. Besides, it would be best to review the matter in the morning when he was fully rested.  
  
As soon as he returned to bed, he knew he had made the correct decision. His wife's dream soon passed, and she lay quiet again. Pharazôn moved closer to his wife, feeling the warmth she radiated. She was a cold wife when she was awake, and yet she always made him feel as if his heart were afire. "My dearest Zimraphel," he murmured, before settling down to sleep, "I think, perhaps, I love you too much." 


	10. The Loss

The Loss  
  
Armenelos  
  
3260, Second Age  
  
The door opened, and hushed voices began to whisper back and forth.  
  
"I am sorry, my lord King, but there is little we could do," came the frightened apology of a tall physician.  
  
Pharazôn kept his voice low, but it was filled with rage. "Tell me what is wrong with her," he demanded. There was a silence. The small group of physicians exchanged nervous glances, none of them wanting to deliver the news. For eight hours now, the king had been sitting in his study, banished from the main chamber. Now he peered past them to look over at the bed.  
  
Queen Míriel lay quiet and still, an older woman still standing nearby. The woman quickly turned from her patient and walked over to the door that led to the King's study. She was matronly, a woman that seemed to exude wisdom and comfort. Her eyes were sad as she found the words to say what the others dared not. "My lord King, the Queen lost the child she carried."  
  
The king stared at her, and when he spoke there was a note of despair barely recognizable in his voice. "The child?"  
  
"The queen told me that she had been with child for a little more than two months. Bringing a child into this world is a terrible danger. I have been a midwife for many years, and I have seen this happen before, my lord King. There are times when…"  
  
"What can be done for her?" Pharazôn asked them.  
  
"There is little," one of the physicians spoke up.  
  
"Little?" the King flared, his despair falling away to anger. "You will go and find something that can be done for her! Immediately."  
  
"All that can be done now is to let her rest," the midwife tried to interject. "The queen will be tired for some time. There may be more bleeding, but it will be little compared to what had already passed."   
  
"Just leave us. Now." It was an order, and the physicians and the midwife scurried out of the room quickly. As they hurried out, they whispered to each other.  
  
"This is a bad tiding for the royal house. To see the queen so…"  
  
"Even the line of Eärendil is no stranger to loss."  
  
"The king will want us to find something…"  
  
"What she needs now is comfort and rest, not complicated medicines."  
  
Míriel listened as they left the room and heard the footsteps heading over to the bed. A chair thudded across the carpet, and soon she felt a warm hand take hold of hers. "Why did you not tell me?" Her husband's voice was no longer angry, the former hint of desperation taking over. He said it as if he expected an answer. Míriel remained still, feigning sleep. She did not want to face him now. Her strength was gone and she felt as if she were a cliff crumbling into the sea. If she spoke now, she knew that her emotions would overrun her reason.  
  
She wanted to weep, to mourn for a child she would never know. Pharazôn's presence silenced her, his miserable attempt at comfort only reminding her of the morning's events. When she had awoken, she had felt ill, as if something was not right within her. A sense of danger had filled her, although she could not foresee why. When she had told her maid that she did not feel well and wished to remain in bed, the maid had gone directly to the king.  
  
Pharazôn had come in, flanked by servants carrying covered dishes and platters. "If you do not feel well enough to come down to breakfast, then I will bring breakfast up to you," he announced. She had been frustrated at this, but it was a predictable move on his part. She had made up creative excuses to avoid his company before, and he usually found ways around them. The king probably thought she was lying about her condition. For a moment, he was busy directing servants to set down their things and leave. Then he turned to her.  
  
"I truly do not feel well, Pharazôn," Míriel had protested. He looked at her skeptically.  
  
"I will call for my physicians, then."  
  
"No need for that," she had quickly snapped. Her secret was still safe within her, and she would not risk a physician discovering it. However, her comment had made Pharazôn extremely defensive.  
  
"What game are you playing, Zimraphel?" His voice was demanding, and his face betrayed his frustration. "I tire of these games you play. If you are trying to avoid me, then come out and say it." Angrily, Míriel had struggled to her feet. As she stood, she had only felt worse, but ignored it. She would not stay in here with him so he could make her even more miserable.  
  
"If you want the truth, husband," she spat, the last word oozing hatred, "then you shall have it. I do not feel well and I only want to be left alone to rest. However, seeing as you are incapable of leaving me be for even a few short hours, I will be in my study." She headed for the door, hoping for a few hours on uninterrupted sleep on the couch in her study. Her husband moved around to block her passage.  
  
"How do I know what is truth and what is a lie any more?" he asked her. "I want to believe what you say, but you have not given me any reason to trust you."  
  
"With whom do you think the fault lies?"  
  
"If you are insinuating that the fault is mine, you are wrong. I want to trust you, Zimraphel. It is you who persists in lying, arguing, and hurting me with what you say and do. I never wanted to hurt you." He was trying to plead, his face a mask of sadness, but Míriel could see the anger behind his eyes.  
  
"You hurt me more and more each day. I can never trust or love you. I told you once that I would hate you until the day I die, and I will not retract that oath so easily." He had opened his mouth, the anger finally beginning to manifest itself openly. Then the first pain had come. She had felt as if her insides were tightening and twisting. The first flash of pain she withstood, but the second was worse. She had doubled over, clutching her stomach. Her first worry was for the fragile child inside her. She sensed the danger again and knew. Her child was in danger.  
  
Her husband had panicked, yelling for someone to bring a physician. Then he had gone over to her, helped her back to the bed where she laid down. The pains were increasing. Míriel had been in pain before, but this was different. It was as if her body was tightening then relaxing, over and over again. She was reminded of childbirth, and was suddenly afraid. The child inside her was not yet ready to live outside the safety of her womb. Despite her fear, she had said nothing to Pharazôn, who looked terrified.  
  
It had not been long before three physicians had rushed in. They had sent the king out of the room almost immediately, saying that he would help the queen more by collecting himself and leaving her in their hands. How very right they were… Pharazôn had nervously retreated to his study, and the doctors had asked her many questions. Reluctantly, she told them that she was with child. Their eyes had widened, but they said nothing. They decided to send for a midwife, and Míriel asked for a woman that she trusted. She had come to know the palace staff and knew well who was of the Faithful and who reported to her husband. Not long after a page was sent to bring up the midwife, the bleeding had started.  
  
The next few hours went by in a blur. People had been rushing around her, chattering nervously when they thought she could not hear. They knew the king's temper and were terrified that they might be blamed for the loss of his child. Desperately, they worked to stop her bleeding. The midwife even whispered a quick prayer to Eru for her when the others were consulting in a corner. Míriel had been so afraid. She had known that carrying a child was dangerous, and had made the decision to keep it. Suddenly, she was watching her blood rush out of her, the child leaving her. Fear for her life and for her child's life overwhelmed her. There was no way to save it now, she knew. The child was gone. Her child…  
  
It would always be her child, she had told herself. When she first realized that she was pregnant, she had almost rid herself of the child with herbs and medicines. Long ago, she had sworn that she would never bear a child to Pharazôn, that she would never give him an heir to twist and corrupt. It disgusted her to think that the child of her body might be a tyrant like his father. Yet, when the time had come, she had not been able to rid herself of the child. It was not his child, she had realized. It was hers. Perhaps Pharazôn had a part in its making, but she would make sure that he had no part of its life. She would raise this child and love it.  
  
She would have someone to love. Loneliness had dominated her life here in Armenelos. She saw Amandil occasionally, but it was not enough. What she needed was someone to love unconditionally, and someone to return that love. Perhaps Pharazôn would allow her to remove from the capital and raise the child in a quiet house in the countryside, far away from the city that had become her prison. If it was son, then he would have no further need of her, and she might be free…  
  
When she had decided to keep the child, she had thought of her grandmother. Inzilbêth had been married to one of the King's Men, another unwilling Faithful bride. She had told Míriel once that after her marriage, her children were the only thing that brought any joy to her life. Even Gimilkhâd brought her some happiness in his early years. When she removed to Andunië with Palantir, it had been the happiest time of her life. Her grandmother had raised a Faithful king. Míriel had believed that she could do the same.  
  
Now she had no choice. The child was gone. The hours passed, and the doctors still bustled around her. The midwife spoke with her, told her that all she needed was rest. She had drifted in and out of sleep, wondering how long it would take to regain her strength. When she slept, she dreamed of her child.  
  
She could see him so clearly in her mind. Her son stood tall on the shore, the waves crashing around him. His hair was black and long, and he almost reminded her of Isildur. Proud grey eyes looked back at her, and he was smiling. At once, she sensed his strength and nobility in the way he carried himself. This was a young man born to rule, born to lead people. She could feel the strength of their connection, an overwhelming love filling her. She would give her life for this child. Míriel wanted nothing more than to watch him grow up, to learn and explore the world…  
  
When she awoke, she only felt empty. She still felt as if a part of her was missing. Tears threatened, but Míriel refused to let them come. The last thing she wanted was to face her husband. He was still holding her hand, the silence settling uncomfortably around them. She tried to be as still as she could, focusing on her breathing. Then someone knocked on the door, and Pharazôn let go of her hand. She listened to his even footsteps, the noise slightly muffled by the carpet. The door swung open and she heard a familiar voice.  
  
"I met the physicians on my way here, so I offered to bring this up for them, my lord King." There was a pause, then Pharazôn spoke.  
  
"Thank you, Lord Amandil. I assume you are here to speak with Queen Zimraphel?"  
  
"I do not wish to disturb her if she is sleeping," came Amandil's polite voice.  
  
"She is not sleeping," Pharazôn told the other man. Míriel slowly sat up in bed, opening her eyes and glancing over at the two men standing in the doorway. Pharazôn looked weary when he turned back to look at her. "She has been awake for some time." He looked at her as if to drive in the point. She met his gaze with an emotionless stare, then looked beyond to Amandil. The Lord of Andunië looked worried as well, and she perceived his great sadness.  
  
"I'll leave you now. Perhaps she will be willing to speak with you," the king said bitterly. He pushed past Amandil and left them alone. Amandil entered the room, closing the door behind him. He walked over to her bed and set a goblet of some liquid down on a small bedside table. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, looking down at her.  
  
"I told your father I would look after you," the old man began, looking guilty. "I have been doing a poor job thus far, Míriel."  
  
"There is nothing anyone could do," she tried to tell him. "Perhaps the child was not meant to be." Her uncle shook his head.  
  
"I am sorry," he said, patting the hand that lay on top of the covers. "Trying to bring a child into the world is never easy." Míriel felt a wave of sympathy for Amandil. His wife had died bringing Elendil into the world after a difficult delivery. Something was wrong with the world, she decided. The Lady of Andunië had never been able to watch her son and grandsons grow, her own mother had passed away before Míriel even had the chance to know her, and now she would never know what her son might be like.  
  
"I wanted that child," she said at length. "I would have loved him." Her companion's brow furrowed.  
  
"You are so sure it was a son?" That made her pause. Yes, she was sure it was a son. She could feel it; she could even see it.  
  
"I simply know. How or why, I do not understand. I just feel it." Some things had invaded her senses lately, and she could not rationalize them.  
  
"When he was young, your father knew things he could not know. I would not be surprised if you were the same. All I can do is hope that you will not suffer from the visions as he did. Our future is darker now than it was even in his last days. I would not lose you as we lost him."  
  
"I will not let myself be lost to despair," she promised him. Despair had nearly consumed her once, but it could not rob her of her will to live. She would make it through this. "Come, let us not talk of sadness and loss." Attempting to lighten her uncle's spirits somewhat, she turned the tide of the conversation to something more pleasant. "Tell me how Elendil and his family have been. I have not seen them in many months." It had not taken her long to learn that nothing distracted a parent better than talking about their children.  
  
"Elendil is well, as is Celaurien. They send their love to you. If you could find the time to travel to Andunië, it would be good for you. Not only for you, but it would be good for my son. He worries for your sake, and he already has enough to concern him. Yet there is some joy in the household. It seems that Isildur has a sweetheart now." Míriel smiled. Life went on outside this palace of stagnation. Love still existed for others, even though she could not grasp it.  
  
"He is a bit young to be thinking of marriage and courtship," she marveled. "It is well that Elhíril is a patient girl." Amandil only shook his head.  
  
"It took no foresight to know that," he said. "They have been friends since birth. It is good to see my grandson happy. There is so little happiness to be had these days."  
  
"And what of Anárion?"  
  
"He is immersed in his studies, as usual. His sword skills have improved a great deal, as has his chess strategy, I hear." He looked up at Míriel a moment, and she forced a smile.  
  
"It has been a long time indeed since I played chess," she admitted. Vaguely, memories of a chess game in Andunië drifted through her mind. As she spoke with Amandil, she wondered if she had managed to distract him from the gloom that drew him here. Even trying to speak of happy things, her sadness was still dwelling in the back of her mind, plaguing her. They continued to speak for some time, before they both trailed off into silence.  
  
"I can see that I am not bringing you any comfort," Amandil said at last. She shook her head.  
  
"There is nothing anyone can do, Amandil. Only time can heal me." He nodded in agreement.  
  
"Your physicians concur. They sent this." He indicated the goblet he had brought in and set on the table beside her bed. "It is no medicine, just a drink to settle your stomach a bit. They worry more about the king than you, I think."  
  
"Let me worry about Pharazôn. I am his wife, and I will deal with him." She narrowed her eyes. If her husband directed his anger and grief at the physicians, he would answer to her. It was too difficult to find a good physician that could be trusted with the health of the royal family, and she would not let the king drive decent ones away. The king… She would have to deal with him soon enough. Amandil looked tired, still as worried as when he had come in. This was not helping either of them.  
  
"I think I may need some rest now," she told the older man. "Thank you for talking with me. It was so good to see you again."  
  
"I am at your service, my queen," he answered, using the bed to push himself up again. He stood and gave her the barest trace of a smile. "Your family still loves you. Always remember that."  
  
"Thank you." As he left, she settled back down and shut her eyes. There were still those in this world that loved her, though it was too dangerous to show it often. Her child was gone, but she would endure. She always endured the losses that surrounded her. If all the world fell away, would she be forced to remain, to mourn its loss? Her dark thoughts did not plague her long. They were interrupted by Pharazôn's entrance.  
  
He swept into the room, looking slightly less worried. Someone had obviously explained the situation to him, and now there was a different emotion coloring his presence. Unexpectedly, he did not go straight to her when he came in, but rather went to look out the window. She said nothing to him, only shut her eyes, letting him know that she did not wish to speak at the moment. He did not heed her actions, and began to speak aloud.  
  
"I understand that you knew that you were with child for some months," he said evenly. She opened her eyes and looked over to where he stood. The afternoon sun shone around him, his dark silhouette standing tense and tall in front of the window. Timidly, she answered his question in a quiet voice.  
  
"I knew for little more than a month. I did not know what to do, much less what to say." She had been filled with uncertainty, and when that faded, with anger and hatred. Never had she imagined trying to tell her husband about the child.  
  
He still looked out into the distance, across the great city. "Why did you not tell me? Did you mean to rid yourself of our child?" His cold voice made her shiver. From fire to ice, her husband was as changeable as the moon today. It frightened her to see him this unstable. Would the fiery anger return unexpectedly? Or would he remain seething and aloof? She prayed for the latter. She was in no condition to struggle with him tonight.  
  
"I considered it," she finally admitted to him. "I will not watch you corrupt any child of mine. Even so… I would not have rid myself of the babe."  
  
"Then this is not by your hand?" His question revealed his mind to her. He suspected her of destroying her child out of hatred for him?  
  
"You are not worth that much hatred, Pharazôn," she answered. "I would have kept the child, if it had… If I had…"  
  
"I have grieved for the child we lost, and yet I am thankful that you are alive and unharmed. There will be more children," came his voice, surprisingly strong and sure. "I must have an heir."  
  
"What if you do not?" she asked softly, feeling the anger build within him as she spoke.  
  
"I will!" was his insistent reply. "Some said that we could not make a child, you and I, but we have. The next child will not be lost, and will grow strong: a true child of Elros, with pure blood and long life!" As he spoke, she felt an emptiness filling her that felt very… certain. It washed away her fragile defenses, all the false happiness she had willed herself to feel after Amandil's visit.  
  
"Are you so sure that there will be another child?" she said, as soon as he finished. That made him pause, set him on edge.  
  
"Are you so sure there will not?" he countered quickly. She felt the certainty down to her very bones. It was a knowledge that flooded into her, whispers of an empty future.  
  
"No child of our blood will ever come from this union." Her voice was distant, as if it were a prophecy that she spoke of. Pharazôn only shook his head, disbelieving.  
  
"You are tired, Zimraphel. I know that you were not sleeping after the physicians left." She meant to ask him why, but he paused only briefly, not enough time to allow her a question. "You have your reasons for avoiding my company, I am sure. Since you are ill, I will honor your wishes. I have arranged a room for you in the east side of the palace that should be ready by tonight. It is yours until you recover."  
  
Míriel suddenly felt as if the heavy burden of their marriage was lightened, as if the overwhelming chains that held her in this place were suddenly unlocked. A few days of freedom… Did he know how much it meant to her? Did he know what a kindness it was? As she watched him study her reaction, it occurred to her that he knew exactly how much she desired freedom, no matter how small. That he was capable of such kindness, she never knew. Of all the things he had taken from her, she wondered, how much had he also given her?  
  
She looked at him and suddenly felt the absence of the little life that had once grown within her. Perhaps she winced, or perhaps he simply knew, but he took a few tentative steps toward her. "Zimraphel…" His voice softened, a low warm voice that she almost wanted to trust. "Are you… Will you be well again soon?"  
  
"I will," she answered quietly. "It is only that I grow tired." The next few words poured out before she could stop them. "And I feel so empty, so alone now…" She felt the bed sink as he sat down on it.  
  
"You are not alone." He smoothed an errant strand of hair away from her face. In the hours after she lost the child, she had never imagined that Pharazôn could bring her anything but pain. Yet now, as he sat beside her, she felt an ease and comfort that Amandil could not give her. Pharazôn was capable of such kindness at times. She only wished that she could unearth in him all that was good and drive away the cruelty his father had instilled in him. She would never stop hating him, but as he sat with her, watching her, she felt a strange sense of acceptance.  
  
Author's note: Sorry it took so long to get updated. Thanks for sticking with me. As always, comments and criticism are welcome!!! 


	11. The Gambit

The Gambit  
Armenelos  
3261, Second Age  
  
The door to Ar-Pharazôn's study swung open. Not bothering to look up from his papers, the king angrily began to admonish the intruder. "I gave an order that I was not to be disturbed!" he barked.  
  
"I do not mean to disturb you, only to make you eat something," came an equally commanding voice. When he looked up, Pharazôn saw his wife carrying in a tray of food. She set it down on the desktop, ignoring his orders. There was a look in her eyes that told him clearly that she was not to be denied. "I am not leaving until you take something to eat."  
  
"I am not hungry," came his reply. To Míriel, he sounded like a spoiled child. She had decided a few days ago that if he was acting like a child, then a like a child he would be treated. Ever since one of the captains of the royal navy had returned with a private report, Pharazôn had been oddly pensive. He had taken to shutting himself in his study, forbidding anyone to disturb him. She had gambled, hoping that he would not deny her entrance.  
  
Boldly, she went over to one of the elegantly carved chairs and dragged it over so that it rested beside the desk. Sitting down in it, she snatched an olive from the tray and popped it in her mouth. They were his favorites, she knew. Black olives from the mountains, where the trees covered the peaks until it became too cold and too high for them to grow. He was staring at her, a confused look on his face.  
  
"I have not poisoned it," she informed him. "Now eat." He still did not touch the food, but at least he set down the papers. She pressed further. "That was not a request, Pharazôn." It was a difficult venture, trying to balance command with concern. Too commanding, and he would ignore her. Too concerned, and he would suspect something.  
  
"Why do you care?" he finally asked her. "If I waste away, I would expect you to be the first to rejoice."  
  
"You are hardly about to waste away," Míriel countered. "What I worry for is the state of your kingdom. You are the king of Númenor, and with that title come many responsibilities. The court has been left leaderless and abandoned, and there are many who come seeking the king's judgment. Your economic advisors are urgently requesting to meet with you, and just this morning another captain from your navy has arrived." At that statement, the king looked back down at the papers scattered across his desk.  
  
The queen got up from her chair and walked around to where her husband sat so she could get a better look at what was distracting him. There were maps laid out on the desktop, with markings on them. She recognized the symbols- they indicated the placement of forces. Her fears confirmed, she looked at her husband's face, trying to discover his emotion and intent.  
  
"You are angry with your advisors for preventing you from colonizing Middle Earth, aren't you?" she asked him in a very forward manner.  
  
"The fools! They would not look to the future, only to the past and present. I was in the right, but they could not see it. Now we have not the strength in Middle Earth that we need." He pounded his fist on the table, sending a few of the olives rolling off the tray. To her satisfaction, he picked them up and ate them. When they were gone, he slowly began to pick at the food she had brought in. She moved back around the desk and poured wine into a goblet and handed it to him. Then she settled back down into the carved chair.  
  
"Many of us were mistaken, myself included," she admitted, hoping to feed the king's ego in hopes that he would reveal his thoughts to her. Between her carefully chosen words and the good Andustar wine she was pouring into his glass, she would have a story out of him soon.  
  
"You admit your error?" he asked her, surprised at her response. "I thought you swore.."  
  
"I said many things in anger," she explained. "When I commented on the colonization issue, it was for the sake of being contrary. The wise know when they have strayed from their path. I let my anger conquer me, and I forgot my duty to the people. What I want now is to repair what has been done and said." He took in her words, considering them carefully. It was dangerous, making admissions like this. Would he think her words false and unconvincing? There was a hint of truth in what she said; she only hoped it was enough to make her believable.  
  
"What is it you wish to do?" It took great effort to keep herself from smiling. Her gambit was beginning to succeed.  
  
"I want to know what troubles you. If I may trust the rumors, then I believe I can be of great help to you." He searched her face as if he were trying to discover some hidden intent or falsehood. He did not seem to find anything, for he handed her a map.  
  
"As you know, these indicate the placement of hostile forces," Pharazôn began, showing her a series of marks near the western coast of the land. "The forces come from Mordor, and are under the command of Lord Sauron."  
  
Míriel studied the map and its forces intently. They appeared to be accurate. She had known about this movement for a week. Her sources of information were far better than anything Pharazôn could cobble together. Elendil and Isildur had sailed to Middle Earth last spring. Their official duty had been to bring back reports on the existing Númenorean colonies there. Their more covert mission had been to gather information about the Faithful that had fled to Middle Earth.  
  
When Elendil returned to visit his father at court and present his formal report to the King, he had met with Míriel in secret. He had delivered the dangerous news. Sauron was closing in on the shores of Middle Earth. His minions were marching toward the coastal cities, driven by fierce hatred. The dark lord would not tolerate their people to grow too powerful. He was taking advantage of their lack of troops on Middle Earth, trying to drive them out. Many of the King's Men were trickling back into Númenor, fleeing from the growing menace. The Faithful had nowhere to go- they could not go back to their homeland. They would have little strength to resist the evil that descended upon them.  
  
Fear for her people had filled her, and she promised Elendil that she would find a way to help them. She knew and loved some of the refugees, and refused to let them come to harm. She was their queen, and it was her duty to protect them. The difficulty lay in finding a way to shield them from the danger of both the King's Men and Sauron's forces. It was Elendil who had made her realize the solution.  
  
"The King has strength enough in Númenor, but Middle Earth is slipping away from him. I do not know whether to rejoice or lament." His words had stayed with her, even after he departed with Amandil and Isildur for Andunië. It had taken her days to discover the solution, and longer to decide how she could achieve it. Then Pharazôn's captains had returned and told him the same news. He had been brooding in his study for some time now, but she had to be careful in deciding when to step in. Timing was crucial in this gambit, as was utilizing everything she knew about her husband.  
  
Pharazôn had reached his breaking point now. He would be receptive to what she was about to say. His frustration made him vulnerable. Amandil had warned her that the king could be a stubborn and prideful man, convinced that he was infallible. Pharazôn preferred to do his own thinking rather than let others do it for him, even if the other person was more qualified for the task at hand. Yet there were times when he would take instruction, the Lord of Andunië had revealed. All she could hope for was that he would take her word in this.  
  
"Sauron's evil has plagued our people for centuries," she began. "Our forefathers have fought him before, and we have been victorious. We sit here in our citadel now and are afraid of his might. Do you not think he is doing the same?"  
  
"You think he fears us?" Pharazôn asked her. He sounded pleased with the idea.  
  
"I know he fears us," Míriel asserted. "Why else is he trying so desperately to push us out of Middle Earth? He fears that our strength there will become great enough to challenge him in Mordor. It was once ours- we know the land well. The tower of Barad-dûr, where he now reigns, was built by one of our kings." Pharazôn looked at her skeptically.  
  
"You have known about his movements in Middle Earth for some time." It was not a question.  
  
"I received reports, yes."  
  
"What advice do you have for me, then?" She had to take care now, not to make her advice sound too much like a command.  
  
"You have great strength in Númenor, Pharazôn. Sail for Middle Earth and challenge Sauron." He was silent for a while, awed at the audacity of those words. He stared at the maps, then up at her.  
  
"Attack Sauron's forces on Middle Earth?" he asked at last, disbelieving. She nodded, resolute in her plan.  
  
"Over the past few years, you have built a large and powerful army. Given a few more months, you could build a grander army than the world has ever seen. We have a superior ability to launch ranged attacks. Our siege weapons are highly advanced, and our archers are the best in the world. Our soldiers are better trained, and better equipped. There are enough ships here to carry such a vast force over the sea, and if there are not, then more can be built to accommodate them. We have the advantage in this battle. It is within your grasp. Think of it… How do you want your name to be recorded in the annals of history? Do you wish to be known as the king who withdrew from Middle Earth and allowed it to be lost? Or will you make your name revered throughout the ages as the one who finally defeated Sauron, the dark Maia?"  
  
She could see the effect her words had on him. She had stoked his desire for power and glory and renown. His greed for it would help persuade him that she spoke wisely. She had revealed one of his deepest wishes with her words: to live forever in the minds of men through his great deeds. In legend, men could achieve immortality, and Pharazôn desired immortality as much as any other man in Númenor. Míriel was offering him his dreams. At the same time, she was concealing her own purpose.  
  
Through Pharazôn, she would rid the world of one its greatest threats. As Lúthien had done, she would overthrow Sauron and send him back into the shadows where he belonged. Too many times in the past had Sauron threatened Númenor. King Gil-Galad and his people on Middle Earth were constantly struggling against him. Without aid, they could not hold out forever. Númenor had come to their aid before, and if Míriel succeeded in this, they would come to the aid of the elves once more. Many would benefit if Sauron were overthrown.  
  
There was the possibility that Pharazôn might be defeated. If that came to pass, and he was killed, then she would not weep for him. It might give her a chance at the throne again, if she acted wisely. Her power and influence had been slowly and subtly building these past few years. She could only hope that there might be some opportunity for her to regain her rightful place on the throne. The Faithful could return to Númenor and the King's Men could fend for themselves on Middle Earth. No matter who won the battle, she would benefit.  
  
Her husband interrupted her thoughts when he reached over and refilled his wine glass. "I am surprised that you would suggest such a bold course of action," he told her. The voice had an amused tone, without a hint of suspicion.  
  
"You forget my actions as princess. I have always supported an aggressive policy against those who threatened Númenor."  
  
"As one of your captains, I could not forget such a thing. I only found it rare because most of your people prefer peace to war." He admired this trait in her, she knew. It had given him the chance to flaunt his skill at command and battle. She had overlooked this at the time, thinking only of the evils he rid the world of and her own interest in keeping him away from the isle as often as possible. There were so many things she now regretted. When she had made the decisions, they had seemed wise..  
  
"I do what I think is best for all the people of Númenor, and those in her colonies," she replied. "If they are best served by war, then so be it." Pharazôn was right. Often, she had disagreed with her father on military matters. He had been determined to create an atmosphere of peace. On the contrary, she had always been worried about outside threats. Now, as Míriel looked at her husband, she found it ironic. The threat from within Númenor had become her undoing.  
  
As she spoke, he smiled. "If ever there are those who think I married you only for your beauty and your blood, then they are fools," he told her. "You are wise beyond your years, and you see clearly what must be done. As do I." He rose from his chair, leaving the wine glass on his desk.  
  
"I will build you an army, Zimraphel- an army so great that none will dare to stand against it. If Sauron fears us now, then he does not know the true meaning of fear." Míriel smiled as well, a smile of satisfaction. Yes, Pharazôn was in her hands now. She would wield him against Sauron as a warrior wielded a sword in battle.  
  
"I have no doubt that your victory will be celebrated for ages to come," she assured her husband, walking over to him. "Then we will establish our colonies and lands on Middle Earth, and we will have nothing left to fear." Míriel had great plans for the colonies. She had the king's ear now, and she would find a way to keep the colonies apart from the fragile Faithful community that was springing up near Pelargir. With Sauron gone and the King's Men occupied in their own lands, there would be no threat to the Faithful. Those she loved would be safe. It was all that she could give them.  
  
"Sauron shall learn that it is futile to challenge the line of Eärendil," her husband declared, taking her hands in his. "Legends shall speak of this day, Zimraphel. They will tell of our might and our glory and how we rose above all our forefathers to do what they dared not."  
  
"So they shall, my lord King," she answered, feeling the rush of power that those words sent through her. "So they shall."  
  
The King stood on the deck of his ship in Rómenna, surveying all that he had done. The great fleet of Númenor was ready to sail. The dock was filled with the families of the soldiers and those who wanted to catch a glimpse of the men who would become legend. They cheered for their warriors, and for their king. Pharazôn stood before them all, robed in red and gold with the King's sword at his side. None could deny that this was a mighty ruler of the line of Elros, bearing the sword of an elven king and standing tall and proud in front of a great armada.  
  
The harbor was filled with ships, and each ship was filled with the finest soldiers. How brilliant his wife had been… They indeed had the advantage in all things: numbers, siege equipment, skill, and so much more. When this force landed in Middle Earth, their enemies would quake with fear. Never had such an army sailed across the sea. Pride and determination filled him as he thought of his impending victory.  
  
His thoughts did not distract him long. He scanned the dock, then turned to his captain. "Where is your sister with the bough of return?" he asked sharply. The King was anxious to be off, and he hated delays.  
  
"I do not know, my lord king," the captain apologized. "She ought to be here shortly."  
  
"Let us hope that she is," came the king's answer. Pharazôn was impatient to set sail, but he had never left the harbor without setting the bough of oiolairë on the prow of his ship. It was an age old tradition, one that was never questioned or overlooked. However, the woman bearing the bough had never been absent when the time for the ceremony came. He was almost ready to send one of his men to search for the captain's sister when there was a murmur from the crowd.  
  
The people parted, making a path down the long dock that led to the king's flagship. At last, the bearer of the bough of return had come. When Pharazôn looked on the woman who bore the green branch, his heart seemed to stop beating for a moment. She wore a gown of silver that shimmered like moonlight on the water and trailed behind her as she carefully made her way down the dock. Her dark hair was black as night, with small silver combs glittering like stars in a dark sky. Around her neck was swan, a marriage of adamant and mithril. She was the image of Lúthien, with a beauty that was almost ethereal.  
  
She stepped up onto the ship carefully, attendants making sure the gown did not catch on the rough wooden steps. "I have come, my lord King," she said simply. Pharazôn did not know what to do.  
  
"Zimraphel…" was all he managed to say. He was overcome by the sight of her, and by the scent of the flower oils that she used in her hair. The queen went over to the prow, and Pharazôn and his captain followed her. Pharazôn was not alone; all the people seemed to be awestruck at her appearance. No doubt they were also shocked to see their queen supporting her husband so publicly. With uncommon grace, she fastened the bow of oiolairë upon the ship's prow and said the ceremonial words. All throughout, Pharazôn stood mesmerized.  
  
When the ceremony was through, he asked her to follow him to the command room. She assented, and dismissed her attendants. Before long, they were alone and he could speak his mind. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Is it not tradition that kin of the captain should come to lay the bough of oiolairë upon his ship?" she asked him.  
  
"Before I departed Armenelos, you said that you…"  
  
"I have changed my mind." He looked into her eyes, but he could not see her thoughts. Even Míriel hardly knew what she was doing here. It had been a whim, an idea that had come to her not long after the king had left for Rómenna. "I am your wife," she told him. "I cannot run away from that any longer. Besides, I wanted to give you my blessing in this."  
  
"Your blessing?" He could hardly believe what she was saying.  
  
"I did not want to send you across the sea with nothing but harsh words weighing on my conscience," she replied. "I came here to wish you good fortune, and may the grace…" He tensed, thinking that she might speak some Faithful blessing, but she paused and chose her next words more carefully. "May the grace of the line of Eärendil be with you." Her eyes were intense as she looked at him. "Return to me victorious."  
  
"I will." He looked at his wife, in all her glory, and a small ray of hope warmed his heart. Perhaps he could save this wreck of a marriage after all.  
  
End of Part Two 


	12. The Return

Author's Note: Apologies to those who read the unedited version of this chapter. Here's the final version- I should have fixed most of the little errors. Thanks for your patience, and for your comments and critiques.  
  
Part Three: Fate Unescapable  
  
The Return  
Rómenna  
3262, Second Age  
  
Míriel stood on the docks, watching as the fleet approached Rómenna's grand harbor. Cool autumn winds drifted in off the ocean and stirred the banners that hung victoriously all around her. An attendant carried her own banner, a silver swan before a white tree embroidered on a field of blue, with silver stars shining overhead. Soon, Pharazôn's banner would fly beside it, a glorious red and gold announcement of his great victory. She was smiling confidently now. Her people were safe and she had discovered a new found power that banished much of the darkness she thought had clouded her life.  
  
Pharazôn would return, and now she would have his ear. This victory had no doubt confirmed his faith in her wisdom. When it came time to order the creation of colonies, he would heed her advice. Elendil had expressed his concerns over the colonies time and time again, but soon he would see that there was nothing to be concerned about. She had not told him of her plans, so doubtless he suspected that it was some plot of Pharazôn's that stemmed from the king's will to dominate. Perhaps someday she would tell her cousin that it was she who meticulously plotted the downfall of Sauron. For now, however, she had merely tried to allay his suspicions.  
  
She had been elated when she received a message from the king. He had sent a small boat ahead with but three sailors aboard. They had given her a very short note from the king and left as soon as they had completed their task. Míriel was hungry for more news of the victory, for her husband's message had been brief, concealing much.  
  
"My beloved Zimraphel- I return to you victorious, and I bring with me a prize greater than you will ever guess. All will be revealed to you upon my return. Prepare a great celebration for our homecoming! If I could see you as I sail into Rómenna, it would bring me great joy. Ever yours, Ar-Pharazôn, King of Men"  
  
Now she was here, watching his flagship approach. The red sails stood out against the blue sky, and the people were already cheering for the returning soldiers. Patriotism had filled Númenor upon news of her victory over an age-old enemy. The Faithful and the King's Men rejoiced together, united for a moment through a common cause. It was a miracle, Míriel thought to herself. We have done a thing that even a mighty kingdom of elves could not do.  
  
When at last the ship reached the harbor, she could see her husband standing proudly before his men. He resembled a great king of men indeed. The queen looked on him and knew that there would be songs and stories about this day, when Ar-Pharazôn returned victorious to Númenor. It was a great moment in their history, and soon she would have the full account of it. The King was the first to descend onto the docks, and he looked infinitely pleased with himself.  
  
"Welcome home, my lord King," Míriel said aloud, her words met with wild cheers.  
  
"I return victorious!" he announced, more to the excited crowd than to his wife. As soon as this formality was done, he turned his attention to her. "Let us retire to the royal villa," he told her. "There is much I want to tell you." He offered her his arm and she took it. The men began to leave the ship, each of them searching for family or friends that stood amongst the crowd. Through it all walked Númenor's king and queen, both of them proud and content.  
  
They entered the royal villa, which was located near the shore. It was one of the many houses the royal family owned on Númenor, and one of the grandest save the palace in Armenelos. The marble pillars supported the great tiled roof, and the fragrances of the garden trees drifted in the large windows. Míriel led her husband up the curving staircase. After a walk down a rather long hall, Pharazôn opened the door for her and they both stepped into the master bedroom.  
  
Míriel had never been here before this year, but she already loved it. It almost reminded her of Andustar, with the sound of the sea outside her window. She looked out the window, which faced towards the sea. There were so many ships still coming into harbor, the vast army of Númenor returning home at last. Unexpectedly, her husband came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her close to him.  
  
"I have missed you, Zimraphel," he said simply, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. Míriel did not pull away from him immediately. She had to confess that while he had been gone, it had been as if something were missing in her life. Although she bore no love for him, no longer did she entirely hate him, either. He had become a constant in her life, and his absence had left her feeling incomplete somehow. His presence now filled the odd void that had been left when she watched him sail away.  
  
She let a few moments pass before stepping away from him and turning to face her husband. "Tell me everything now, Pharazôn. I have waited many months to hear about your campaign." He smiled.  
  
"Very forward of you, my dear," Pharazôn mused. He went over and sat down on the bed. "However, I suppose your patience ought to be rewarded." Míriel gave him a satisfied smile and settled herself on a chaise near the bed, waiting for him to begin.  
  
"We sailed to Umbar. The weather was uncommonly good. Never have I sailed on such quiet seas. Even the wind seemed to heed our wishes." The queen was glad to hear that her prayers had not been unheeded. She begged Lady Uinen to bless the ships' passage for days after they left the harbor. Pharazôn continued his narrative, the excitement building in his voice.  
  
"When we reached Middle-earth, all fled before us. Our enemies dared not even face us. None dared challenge a power so great. For seven days we marched, driving Sauron's forces back as we went. I came to a great hill, and commanded the men to set up the tents. You should have seen them, Zimraphel… It was a vast sea of blue and white and gold. Everywhere was the glint of armor and bright sword blades. They put up a high throne for me, and I looked over the land and thought of what you said to me. I knew that we had the power to bend all the world to our will. That is what we did, love. We put forth our strength, and not even Sauron himself dared stand against us."  
  
Míriel's smile faded. She had expected Sauron to at least defend his land against the invading force. He had been gathering his strength in order to make war on them. It did not make sense that he had merely given up when threatened. "And what of Sauron?" she asked tersely. "Did he engage you in battle?"  
  
"His was the way of a coward. I remember your warning about him from your lore and old tales. He truly is a coward, always fleeing or surrendering when he knows that he is bested. When we sent his miserable creatures fleeing back to their master, I am sure that he knew who the true King of Men was!" Pharazôn's voice was filled with pride, and fear and doubt began to push their way into her mind. There was more to this story than her husband was telling her.  
  
"What did he do?" she asked bluntly.  
  
"He surrendered to me. He came down from his tower to the camp where we waited and laid down his claims on Middle-earth." It could not have been so easy, Míriel thought to herself. What could have made him abandon all the land he had conquered?  
  
Pharazôn frowned as he watched his wife's face contort with confusion. He stood and went over to where she sat. As he took her hand he spoke to her, and Míriel thought he had a strange and prideful look in his eyes. "Come with me, my love, and I will show you something you have never even dreamed of." She got up and followed him, her confusion growing with every step.  
  
He led her down the stairs and out of the villa. They were headed back towards the harbor where the king's flagship was still docked. She was led up the plank onto the ship, and then down into the rooms beneath the deck. There were soldiers everywhere, and the atmosphere aboard the vessel made the queen nervous. She could sense a danger that grew with every step she took. Pharazôn's hand seemed to burn as it pulled her onwards, and at last she stopped.  
  
"What do you have aboard this ship?" she demanded of her husband, pulling her hand out of his. Pharazôn, surprised by this sudden outbreak, said only a few words and continued down towards a small room surrounded by soldiers.  
  
"You will soon see." Hesitantly, Míriel approached the room, the danger becoming more and more tangible. Even the men guarding the room looked nervous, as if they could feel the danger as well.  
  
"Make way for the King!" one of the guards yelled. More men swarmed around their lord as one of the officers took out a key. The door was unlocked, and the guards took their place in front of the king. The door opened, and Míriel heard a smooth voice coming from the inside of the room.  
  
"Do not look so frightened. I will do no harm to you or to your king. Let him approach me without fear." The guards parted to allow Pharazôn to look into the room. Others escorted the queen over to stand beside her husband. Her feet moved, even though her mind screamed for her not to take another step. When she looked into the room, the sense of danger and fear became overwhelming.  
  
He was sitting on a small wooden chair, looking at them with an expressionless face. His black hair was long, in a different style than the men of Númenor kept it, and he had no beard. There was an almost elven quality to him, and she could tell that he possessed both grace and wisdom. Fierce green eyes burned into her when his gaze settled on her. She saw the slight sneer that curled his lips as he looked at her.  
  
"We meet at last, Queen Zimraphel of Númenor." He stood and bowed humbly, but she was not fooled. The bow was only to mock her, and his polite words were in no way sincere.  
  
"I am surprised that you expected to meet me. I only expected to rejoice when I heard that Sauron the Abhorred had been utterly destroyed." His eyes indicated that he had much the same opinion of her, although his manner remained polite.  
  
"I am destroyed," he answered carefully. "I have accepted my defeat and sworn allegiance to Númenor's king. And to its queen as well."  
  
"I want none of your allegiance," she spat. "I would not be so shamed."  
  
"Your words wound me, and yet they are not unexpected. Truly you are the likeness of Lúthien, for she spoke with the same sharpness."  
  
"You remember then, how Lúthien threw down your tower? Then beware provoking the wrath of her children, for we are no less perilous!" With that, she stormed away, cursing under her breath. The guards hurried to lock the door again, and Pharazôn hurried after her. Míriel felt all the fear turn to anger.  
  
When her husband caught up with her, she leveled him with a glare so fierce that even the great king was fearful. "Why?" It was only one word, and yet it was filled with hatred, contempt, and fear. Pharazôn struggled long for an answer to give her.  
  
"I… I thought it wise," he finally responded.  
  
"Wise? How is it wise to bring such danger to our realm? You know how powerful he is! He is a Maia, Pharazôn!" Her husband began to get angry with her.  
  
"Were you not the one who told me that the power of Men could overthrow even the mighty Maiar?" he demanded. "I have reasons for what I have done. You are no longer my sovereign, and I am no longer your captain. I am the King of Númenor, and my will shall be done without question!"  
  
"Even if it brings danger down on all your people?" she spat back.  
  
"It will not." He seemed so confident in his actions. Míriel wondered if that foolish over confidence would one day be his undoing. Pharazôn would not see what he did not want to see. Instead of storming away, he persisted in explaining his actions. No matter how much he thundered that he did not care what she thought, he would not be satisfied until she agreed with him.  
  
"Don't you see, Zimraphel? What could I accomplish by defeating him in Middle-earth and leaving him there? He would only rebuild his forces and become a threat once more. Time and time again he has been defeated, and he always returns. Why? It is because he is always left to his own devices once the victory is achieved. Never before has anyone taken steps to prevent any future aggression. I intend to keep Sauron here on Númenor, where he will be under our eye. We can create a prison for him from which he cannot break free. I will not let him return to his dominion in Middle-earth and threaten us again."  
  
She wanted to distrust her husband's words, but as they ran through her mind, they began to make sense. He had not acted out of pride, but with wisdom and forethought. Now she did not know what to think of the situation. All she knew was that a sense of fear and foreboding was growing within her. She only shook her head, sending him the clear message that she would not condone his action. Pharazôn's patience was gone, and he stormed out onto the deck. Míriel remained, watching the guards.  
  
Although reason told her that the king's words made sense, her intuition spoke differently. When she had sent her husband to Middle-earth, she had not expected this to occur. Her own pride had brought this on, as much as his pride had. She shivered with an unknown fear. Suddenly, the sounds of the waves outside intensified, and Míriel thought she could hear the wind howling mournfully. She closed her eyes and willed it all away. "What have I done?" 


	13. The Deceiver

"The Deceiver"  
Armenelos  
3265, Second Age  
  
The queen sat on her throne beside her husband, her hands clenching the arm of the chair so hard that her knuckles were white. Before the court stood a tall figure, speaking words that would kindle pride in the hearts of the councilors present. Míriel only glared at the speaker, and when the speaker turned to her, she saw an equal hatred flare in his emerald eyes. The others in the court did not seem to notice how dangerous the words this man spoke could be. They eagerly hung on his every word, forgetting that he had once been their greatest enemy.  
  
She had not forgotten. He was rightly named Sauron the Deceiver. It had been but three years since Pharazôn had brought him as a prisoner to Númenor. Three short years, and the snake already had the ear of the greater part of the royal court. It had started simply and innocently, when men were sent to interrogate the prisoner. Sauron had spoken to them of great lands that were now left vacant, and had shared some of his wisdom with his captors. When the men reported back to their king, Pharazôn had desired to learn more. His desire for power and glory had eaten away at his resolve to lock the Maia away to be forgotten. Míriel had watched as the king's ambition and his wisdom struggled with each other.  
  
She had warned her husband not to pay heed to the words of the prisoner. Even after he ignored her the first time, she pressed him to listen to her words. Then she began to realize that her hold on him was slipping. Míriel could not offer Pharazôn power any more. He had only ever listened to her words if he thought they might bring him the power he desired. Even when she begged him not to give the prisoner a temporary release to teach some of his skills to the people of Númenor, Pharazôn had ignored her.  
  
Now, there was a wolf among them, disguised for the moment, but ever perilous. His words were a greater weapon than all his minions and demons, and his words were beginning to crumble everything that she had done over the past ten years.  
  
"You have a great army, my lord King: the mightiest this world has ever seen. It would be a pity to disband it so quickly." Sauron's voice invited everyone to trust in his wisdom, yet Míriel was not so easily fooled. She could see him try to work his will on those who held the power in Númenor. He turned and looked at the newly appointed Chief Advisor, who nodded in agreement with the Maia's words.  
  
The chief advisor turned to Pharazôn. "He speaks the truth, my lord. You are King of Men. There are none now that can withstand your might. We must use our power to great effect."  
  
"Why be satisfied with one great victory?" another advisor chimed in. "Surely the greatest of all Eärendil's heirs should have a larger empire than one small island!"  
  
"Ah, but he no longer merely rules the island," the chief advisor replied to his colleague. "We have secured the southwestern coast of Middle-earth, and some of the land beyond." His words were in response to the advisor, but Míriel could tell that they were directed at the king. Pharazôn swelled with pride at his lackey's words.  
  
It was disgusting, how they all fawned upon the king, speaking over and over again of his great victories and mighty heritage. Sauron had been the first to do so, and all followed him afterwards. All but one. Míriel looked over at the empty chair at the king's right hand. The Lords of Andunië had occupied that chair for many centuries, and now she feared that the next to take the seat would be Sauron himself.  
  
The king finally spoke on the matter. "I agree that we should find some purpose for our army. Yet there is no current threat to our island, nor to our colonies.  
  
"I agree, my lord King," Míriel was quick to interject. "There is no reason to press upon other shores. We should hold what we have against any possible attack."  
  
"Do you agree that there is no threat?" Sauron asked her pointedly. "If so, then why would it be necessary to guard the colonies?"  
  
"We cannot know what threats may come," she answered, seeing how she had been caught. "It is imperative that we not lose the ground we have won. It would be more costly to regain a territory than to defend it." She could see that a few of the advisors saw the wisdom in her words, but then Sauron continued to speak.  
  
"If there are threats, then let us seek them out and eliminate them! Forgive me, my queen, but you are not giving thought to the vast world outside this isle, outside your colonies." He turned round, addressing all the advisors present. "I tell you now that there are vast lands beyond imagining in Middle-earth, and even to the west. Some are settled by only a few wanderers, others are open and full of opportunities. There is great wealth to be had in the world," he said, then turning to address the king directly, "but it will only come to those who seek it."  
  
"Great wealth?" the financial advisor asked eagerly. "What kinds of wealth might be found?"  
  
"Gold and silver, and many other things that cannot be found here on Númenor," Sauron told them. "There is mithril and adamant, great trees that can be fashioned into great ships, enough fertile land to support vast fields of grain… There is more on Middle-earth than you could ever dream. You could claim it all, and the glory of Númenor would rise, even above that of the West." Their pride could not resist such goading.  
  
Sauron knew how strongly the King's Men desired to prove themselves greater than the elves, more mighty than even the immortal Valar. When offered power, these men would go to any lengths to achieve it. It was their greatest weakness, and Sauron played upon it as a bard would play the strings of a lyre.  
  
Míriel watched her husband, observing the changes in his face and manner. At first, he had been somewhat cautious, but now he was being drawn in by Sauron's promises. Of all of those who sat in this hall, it was he who most desired power. She did not know what she could say to dissuade him. If he thought that this course of action would give him the glory and might that he wanted, then he would follow even the words of the evil Maia.  
  
It was nearly an hour before Pharazôn dismissed his advisors and retired to his study. She did not return to their chambers, but instead left the palace. Her guard followed her closely through the busy streets, mumbling to himself about the strange ways of his queen. Pharazôn had relaxed the security he surrounded her with, but Míriel still found herself wishing she could have a moment of privacy. She vowed to find a way to gain a few moments of peace.  
  
It was not far to the house of Anduni's lord, and she and her guard were admitted quickly, ushered in by two Faithful guards. Inside, servants were rushing about, packing up all the artifacts that had graced the house for so many years. It looked empty, devoid of the vibrant life it had once contained. In a short amount of time, one of the servants came to greet her.  
  
"Queen Zimraphel, we are honored by your presence. Lord Amandil wishes to speak with you alone." The young man looked over at her guard. "Be assured that no harm will come to the queen under his lordship's watch." Her guard looked a bit skeptical of this, but Míriel turned to him and assumed the mantle of a monarch. Her voice was imperious and commanding as she gave him an order.  
  
"I would speak with my kinsman alone. You have my word that I will return with you to the palace when I am finished." Before long her guard nodded, indicating that she could go. The servant led him to a small reception room where he could sit and wait for her, then returned to her.  
  
"Come with me, my lady," he said simply.  
  
"Thank you, Eärdur," she whispered to him. He smiled at her and nodded. The young man had been a faithful follower of the Lord of Andunië for several years now, one of the few brave enough to remain with Amandil after his fall from the king's favor. She knew that his family had been steadfast in their beliefs, proud to be numbered amongst the Faithful. There were still some who fear could not drive away. It always amazed her how resilient her people could be, even in the face of the new wave of persecution that had swept the isle.  
  
The young man led Míriel to an empty room that had once been a foyer filled with art and furniture. She traced the wave patterns in the tile walls idly, remembering previous visits to this house. It had been a haven for her, even after her marriage. Now she was losing the last of her kin, and she would lose the small comfort that her uncle's presence gave her. She would be left to face a court and a husband that were slowly slipping away from her, left to combat a dark lord alone.  
  
It was some time before Amandil descended the stairs, a weary look on his face. Never before had he looked so old. His hair was pale grey and his eyes were tired. She could feel his sorrow and disappointment as he looked down at her. This day was a grave and tragic one for the house of Andunië. "Tar-Míriel," he greeted, "I have the pleasure of welcoming the queen to this house for the last time."  
  
"I wish it were not so," she said simply, "but we must accept what we cannot change." He embraced her, and for a moment, she was reminded of her father. When she was young, this simple gesture would have been enough to solve all of her problems. Now, it only reminded her of what she was about to lose.  
  
"I am nearly ready to set out," Amandil told her, stepping away and indicating the stairs. "Before I go, I would speak with you upstairs." Míriel nodded, and the Lord of Andunië turned to Eärdur. "Can I trust you to take care of the remaining documents?" he asked the young man. The servant nodded, and left to attend to his lord's business. Míriel and Amandil went up the stairs and into Amandil's sitting room.  
  
They went in and shut the door behind them so that none would overhear them. There was no furniture left in the room, no curtains on the windows, nor rugs on the floor. Amandil looked out the window for a moment, looking towards the west. "I am not returning to Andunië," he said simply. Startled, Míriel frowned.  
  
"What has happened?"  
  
"A messenger came today with an official order. My lands in Andunië have been taken from me." She had never expected something so drastic to occur. It was only at Sauron's insistence that Amandil had been ejected from the court. She had been sure that Pharazôn still held the old lord in high respect. After all, Amandil had openly defied Sauron and the rest of the king's counselors for three years, and Pharazôn still kept him as one of his chief advisors. She had to admit, however, that the king's patience had been wearing thin. More and more, it was Sauron who swayed his decisions.  
  
For a man who prided himself on enforcing his will above all others, Pharazôn was being manipulated far too easily. Míriel suspected that the Maia had some darker power over the king than the power of mere persuasion. She could not name it, but she felt it lurking in the room when he was there, a tangible fear that grew within her mind. No matter what happened, she could not let the fear conquer her, she thought to herself. She was the only one who might be able to counteract Sauron's attempts to control the king. Even so, she had not been able to convince her husband that Amandil should stay in Armenelos. It was yet another of her many failures as queen.  
  
"Where will you go, if not to Andunië?" she asked him.  
  
"I shall settle in Rómenna. Elendil and his family will join me before long, as will other Faithful families. Andunië is no longer safe for them. There are many of our people who already live in the east, after they were forced to leave their homes during Ar-Gimilzôr's reign. The Faithful near Rómenna are safer than those who live in isolated communities that are slowly turning against them." He shook his head. "I would never have believed that the west would be taken by the King's Men. It was the last thing…"  
  
"My grandfather's only intention in that order was to humiliate and harass the Faithful. He likely only did it to spite his wife." Míriel's voice was bitter. There had never been great love between her father's parents, especially after Inzilbêth left for Andustar with her eldest son. She had always felt sorry for her grandmother, but her grandmother had taught her something important. From an unhappy union had come one who would nearly redeem Númenor. Some good could come of even the most evil of deeds. The seeds of hope always remained.  
  
At her comment, Amandil frowned. "Do you think Pharazôn means to spite you with his actions? It seems that he turns away from you more each day."  
  
"It is not that he turns away from me, but that he listens more and more to Sauron. There was a time when I thought that I could use his love for me to protect our people, but I failed. I failed…"  
  
"In a way, I am glad that he loves you," Amandil mumbled. "This way, he will let no harm come to you." She looked confused, and the old man tried to explain himself. "I do not trust Sauron. We know that he has not forgotten his humiliation at Tol-in-Gaurhoth. Long has he wished to destroy the Children of Lúthien. Now I must leave you here alone…"  
  
"I can protect myself," she interjected. "I do not need anyone."  
  
"You deserve to have someone there for you, even if you think you do not need them," Amandil told her gently. "Your family will always love you, and we will always try to protect you." He laughed a little. "You know how Elendil is. He wants nothing more than to secret you away to Pelargir." Míriel smiled slightly.  
  
"He does not understand. I would never be safe, no matter where I went. It is better that I remain here." Thoughts of Pelargir and those who dwelt there filled her mind. Sorrow and joy filled her as she thought of days gone by and old regrets. Frustrated, Míriel tried to regain control. Both love and happiness were lost to her, and it would do her no good to imagine what might have been. She had to be content that her love was safe. It had to be enough.  
  
Amandil only shook his head. "I wish there was some good news I could give you."  
  
"Perhaps I could visit you in Rómenna for a time," the queen suggested. "I would not stay long, of course. Everywhere I go, I am followed. Sauron does not trust me any more than he trusts you."  
  
"I can see why. You are right to be cautious. Only three years, and he already has an extensive network of spies and henchman all throughout the island." Míriel raised an eyebrow at that statement.  
  
"I imagine it hardly rivals Celaurien's," she remarked. "But it worries me. Sauron is too persuasive. He is dangerous. The King's Men are volatile right now. I am doing all I can for the Faithful, but if our enemies have any motivation to lash out against us, I fear what the consequences may be."  
  
"We can only wait and pray," sighed Amandil. "I will be praying for you most of all." He put his hand on her shoulder and turned towards the door. "We should go before your guard becomes suspicious."  
  
"Of course." They left the room and went back down the stairs. Míriel regretted every step. She did not want to leave her uncle. Saying goodbye was too hard. It seemed like she always lost those she loved, but she remained. She would be the last to fade away, after everything she had ever known had been destroyed… Shaking her head, Míriel realized that she had let her mind wander. Focusing on the present, she tried to find the words to say farewell.  
  
"I shall come to Rómenna as soon as I can. Send word to me and let me know if Elendil, Celaurien, and the boys arrive safely."  
  
"I will," Amandil promised. "I'll have Celaurien write the letter herself." Míriel nodded, knowing that this meant only coded letters would be safe. "Never forget your family," he added softly.  
  
"I will never forget any of you. You are all I have left."  
  
"Not all…" Amandil said, with a quick glance towards the west. Míriel smiled. Yes, she still had her faith and her family. That was enough. It had to be enough. After one last embrace, Míriel sent for her guard and left the Lord's house. Everything was changing, now, and she had to endure.  
  
She made her way up to her chamber to shed her robes of state and begin to think of a new strategy. It was her duty now to make the king see what madness it was to heed the words of a dark lord like Sauron. As she walked through the halls, a few people gave her a disdainful look as she passed. It made her wonder what the Maia had said of her, but she cared little. He could say what he would of her, and she would do the same for him. Her will was strong, and she would strive with him for control of this court. Tar-Palantir had not raised his daughter as a coward who shrunk from a challenge.  
  
Her guard left her at her chamber, and she pushed through the door quietly, hoping not to disturb her husband if he was inside resting. When the door opened, she realized that he wasn't in the room. His study door was barely open, though, and she heard voices coming from the other room. She drew nearer the door, trying to make out the quiet words.  
  
"If you desire a use for your army, then send them out to explore this world. For they might discover where this world ends, and where the Ancient Darkness begins." Sauron's voice was deep and persuasive. He was trying inspire curiosity in the king, and he was successful.  
  
"The Ancient Darkness? What is it you speak of?" the king demanded. Míriel wondered if others were in the room, but it did not seem so. That meant that Sauron had been granted a private audience with the king. Pharazôn was more foolish than she had previously thought. What was the Maia's purpose in this? She listened carefully to the answer to her husband's question.  
  
"I speak of the Ancient Darkness that has been forgotten. And out of it the world was made. For Darkness alone is worshipful, and the Lord thereof may yet make other worlds to be gifts to those that serve him, so that the increase of their power shall find no end." Míriel eyes widened, and her heart began to pound in her chest.  
  
"No," she mouthed silently. "No. Pharazôn, please, please do not believe this madness. It is deceit and trickery. Oh please, Eru, do not let the king believe these words. Please…"  
  
Her prayers did not avail her, and Pharazôn's words only made her more afraid. "Who is the Lord of Darkness?" She cursed the fool, knowing that he would not be able to resist the lure of such power. Yet there was still some chance. Perhaps she could make him see the trickery in the Maia's words. Míriel fiercely renewed her prayers.  
  
Sauron answered the king's question eloquently, telling him dangerous lies that were masked as great wisdom. "It is he whose name is not now spoken; for the Valar have deceived you concerning him, putting forward the name of Eru, a phantom devised in the folly of their hearts, seeking to enchain Men in servitude to themselves. For they are the oracle of this Eru, which speaks only what they will. But he that is their master shall yet prevail, and he will deliver you from this phantom; and his name is Melkor, Lord of All. Giver of Freedom, and he shall make you stronger than they."  
  
Melkor…. The name sounded sinister, and Míriel felt odd as she thought about it. It was almost familiar, as if she had seen it before, or heard it spoken of. Black foe of the world. The words came to her, but when she tried to remember them, they slipped away from her.  
  
"I am not surprised that the Valar are trying to deceive us," she heard Pharazôn say. "They only wish to rule the world, but I will no longer be ruled. What must I do, Lord Sauron, to claim the world beyond the Ancient Darkness?"  
  
"That you must ask Melkor," Sauron replied, and Míriel could hear how pleased with himself he was. "Pray to him, and your wish will be granted."  
  
Míriel began to despair. The Maia knew too well what the king's weaknesses were, and he was too wise not to exploit them. A dangerous game was beginning. Míriel would strive to make the king see the truth, but she knew that every measure she took would be countered by her opponent. It would be a battle more fierce than any that could be fought with soldiers or ships, and what was at stake was more important than a piece of land. Sauron's words could tear the island apart, but she refused to let that happen.  
  
"Eru, let me endure through this," she prayed silently. "Give me the strength to stand against him. I cannot help but feel that a terrible darkness is descending upon us. Have we not suffered enough? Please, Eru, have mercy on the Faithful." She paused, and closed her eyes, her heart heavy. "Have mercy on me."

Author's note: Much of Sauron and Pharazôn's conversation towards the end is taken directly from the Alkallabeth in the Silmarillion.

Sorry the updates are so sporadic. Thanks for the patience. Just a few more chapters to go!


	14. The Fruit

"The Fruit"  
Armenelos  
3300, Second Age  
  
Míriel looked up from the manuscript, noting how hard her attendants were trying to look as if they would rather be anywhere but here. She felt no pity for them. The five women that surrounded her were Sauron's people. They were nothing but spies, although this purpose was supposedly disguised by calling them "the queen's handmaidens." For nearly ten years now, she had not been able to escape their constant presence. Sauron was no fool, she had to admit. These women were more effective than any guard.  
  
She felt stifled, as if she were living in a small glass room with no windows and no door. The years felt as if they were getting longer and longer. Each day, she watched her country fall further and further. Soon, there would be no redemption. Sauron's strength grew as hers waned. His minions and spies were everywhere, from Andustar to Umbar.  
  
For nearly thirty years, the Maia had been the king's chief advisor. He sat at the king's right hand in court and shadowed him everywhere. Pharazôn never went anywhere without being accompanied by his "advisor." Sauron did not dwell long in the prison they made for him. Now he lived in the palace and moved about freely, his dark deeds unnoticed by many. Míriel knew much, but there were so few to listen.  
  
She knew of the dark prayers and rituals her husband made, both deep in his chambers and openly in a small temple he had built within the walls of the palace. Pharazôn had also become more secretive since Sauron had begun to poison his mind, and Míriel feared that more than anything. It was impossible to counter what she did not know was coming. She had thought that the king would flaunt the lies that his counselor told him and tell her what a fool she was for clinging to the Valar. Yet he said nothing, and when she attempted to speak of it, he would ignore her and speak about something else.  
  
He was changing, of that she was sure. His temper was even more perilous now than it had been before. He was quick to anger, and acted upon his grudges. Many of his former counselors had been banished or worse. All now agreed with their king for fear of provoking his wrath. When Míriel thought of who he had been before he had sailed to Umbar so many years ago, she felt like weeping. If she had not driven him off, perhaps this doom would not now be creeping over the Land of the Star, and over the royal house.  
  
It was useless, though, to sit and think of what might have been. At the present, there was little she could do, save send what information she could on to Celaurien. She only prayed that it might be of use, and might keep her people safe. The Faithful of Rómenna faced a growing threat, but they were safe for a time. The King's Men were not so bold as to attack such a large community of people under the protection of the realm's most honored lord. There was very little else that Míriel had to be thankful for.  
  
Returning to her manuscript, the queen tried to banish her worries for the time being. She reached for her pen and dipped it into the decorated glass vial of ink. After thinking for a moment, she set the pen to a piece of parchment, and let the scarlet words flow across the page. The library was nearly silent, except for the bored chatter of her handmaidens and the scratching of her pen on the paper. Few came here now to read the old lore that was housed in the palace. They preferred to believe the lies that Sauron fed them.  
  
She had always been amazed at the vast amounts of lore contained in the palace library. As a child, it had been one of her favorite places when she had to stay in Armenelos. Her only regret had been that the library caretakers would not let her take manuscripts out into the garden to be read in the warmth of the sunlight. That was no longer her only concern. She knew that her attendants watched what she read and wrote, and that it would soon be reported to Sauron. For the first few years, she had been outraged and frustrated at this. By now, she had ceased to care.  
  
Most of her attendants could not read Quenya, and their Sindarin was limited. The texts she was copying from now were originally written in arcane Quenya, but soon, the lore they held would be written in Adunaic. Míriel was determined that the history of her land would not be lost. There were too few masters of lore now to keep the old legends alive. Ignorance ruled the land, but Míriel hoped to fight it.  
  
"Why the queen would rather spend her days amongst dusty parchment rather than in the court, I do not know," one of her attendants whispered to the one sitting next to her. The words were not so soft that the queen could not hear them, for they were meant to be heard.  
  
"I would rather spend my days among manuscripts I can trust than sit on a throne and listen to lies and deceit conquer my country," she replied sharply, knowing that the woman had not expected a response. The attendant looked suitable shocked for a moment, then fell silent. Míriel watched as she tried to memorize the words so she could report them later. Briefly, she wondered what it would be like to speak without fear of retaliation, to do what was in her heart without a second thought. She stopped writing, the pen's ink blotting the page as her mind turned to the east, to the coasts of Middle-earth. When she closed her eyes, she could see him, standing beneath the foreign trees of a foreign shore… Her heart ached, and she wondered how many years it had been since she had last seen the one she loved.  
  
The queen felt so old, as old as the crinkled manuscripts she was translating. It was more than just feeling old, though. She was growing weary of the fear, weary of being watched, weary of striving to shape Pharazôn's actions so they did not harm her people. Many years lay yet before her, and yet she was beginning to wish that she would not have to endure the world much longer. Even through this, there was a quiet voice deep within that whispered that she still had much to do in this world, that she could not abandon her realm to Sauron. She would endure, as she always had. There was no other choice, and so she kept on living.  
  
Míriel looked down, frowning at the ink blot that spread across the page. She sighed and began to put away her pen and ink. Her attendants gave her stares that seemed to ask indignantly if she was finally finished. The queen stood, the other women doing so as well. As she gathered her papers, she decided that she had to escape the confines of the palace, if only for a few hours. First, however, she had to archive what she had done today.  
  
Without a word to the others, the queen left the library and headed back to her study. The room was much to her liking and had large windows that overlooked the western gardens. It had become a library as well, with various manuscripts piled on her desk and on several stools. Since she had been robbed of what little political authority she had been given, she had little else to do save occupy her mind with translations and histories.  
  
It had been at Sauron's insistence, of course. Pharazôn had never before doubted her competence at governing the day to day matters of Númenor. He had faith in her training, and his people reviewed all her work to be sure that it contained no Faithful policies. Yet when his counselor began to whisper in his ear about the deceitfulness of his Faithful queen, her power had been taken from her. The ensuing argument had been one of their worst, and Míriel knew that she had said unforgivable things that day. She had felt so betrayed, just as she was beginning to think that she could trust the tyrant who called himself her husband.  
  
When she reached her study and opened the carved wooden door, she found Ar-Pharazôn sitting inside, waiting for her. Their eyes met, and she knew that this would not be a pleasant conversation. "Leave us," the king commanded her attendants. "I would speak with the queen alone." Without a word, the servants remained in the hall, shutting the wooden door to the study after Míriel stepped in.  
  
"I am surprised that you still recognize me as Queen of Númenor," she remarked, carrying her papers over to her desk.  
  
"You are my queen, and will be forever more," he replied smoothly. No matter how charming he was trying to be, it would not avail him. She ignored his words and sat down in her chair.  
  
"I am busy." Her tone told him that she was not inclined to listen to anything he had to say at the moment. Pharazôn stood and walked over to her desk, taking the manuscripts from her.  
  
"Your papers will still be here when I am finished." Standing, she pulled them away from him. Dust flew into the air, and she glared at him.  
  
"Why do you plague me, Pharazôn? If you've something to say, then say it and be gone." Perhaps it was not wise of her to be so curt, but she had grown tired of his games long ago. Her wisdom told her that she should be receptive and try to win his favor, but she was too tired right now to play the part.  
  
"I came to request your presence in court tomorrow," he said, leaning on her desk. "I have an important announcement, and I would have you there by my side when I speak."  
  
"You mean to say that Lord Sauron would have me there, so he can gloat over whatever foolishness he has convinced you to carry out." That comment invoked his anger, as she knew it would.  
  
"It is always the same with you, Zimraphel! Why must you be so hard hearted? Can you not see the wisdom in his words?"  
  
"Not all his words are so wise. Even you know this. He is still our enemy, Pharazôn." She watched as he considered this.  
  
"Lord Sauron does not rule Númenor, and neither do you," he told her harshly. "I rule, and my decisions will govern this land. Know that this decision was mine." She wanted to laugh at him and tell him that he no longer controlled his decisions. The king was under the Maia's power so inexorably that he did not understand that he was only being manipulated.  
  
"And what decision have you made, dearest husband?" she asked, a false sweetness in her voice. "Have you decided to make war on those who dwell near Umbar, as your chief counselor has been hinting for the past two years?" He did not speak for a few moments, obviously surprised at her insight.  
  
"I had not expected one who avoids court so often to be so well informed about its happenings," was the remark he finally made. She gave him a disdainful look that told him that his intentions were obvious.  
  
"When all decisions arise from the whisperings of your councilor, it is not hard to guess your actions. The war on Umbar was inevitable."  
  
"Have I not made decisions that go against him as well?" Pharazôn demanded indignantly. "He has long urged me to cut down the white tree, and yet it still stands."  
  
"And for that I am thankful," Míriel admitted, sitting down again. "I know that you are capable of making wise choices. If I seem angry at you, it is only because you sometimes ignore your own wisdom and let yourself be led astray." She saw him bristle at her comment, but he held his tongue. Suddenly, she felt a longing for some kind of peace. They were always at war now and it made her weary. "Please, let us end this argument. Both of us are too stubborn to change, so let us not speak of it any more." As she spoke, she knew that if she expected him to make concessions, she must make some of her own. "I will come to court tomorrow, and I will say nothing on this war until afterwards. Only promise me this: that Sauron will have no part in its planning."  
  
He looked thoughtful for a while, and then nodded. "I will plan the war myself, along with my military advisors on Middle-earth. Will you trust my 'wisdom'?" She smiled slightly, collecting her papers.  
  
"I would trust your wisdom over Sauron's any day," was her response. Rising, she picked up a stack of documents. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I will go to the library."  
  
Pharazôn followed her to the door. "You spend far too long amongst your scrolls, Zimraphel." She said nothing in her own defense. It was of no use.  
  
"I shall return to the palace before nightfall," she promised. "If you wish a more detailed account, then ask your spies." With that, she swept out the door and down the hall. Her attendants, noting their mistress's departure hurried after her as soon as they saw her go. Soon, she was flanked by two guards as well. Briefly, she wondered what kind of guard they would surround her with should she travel to Andunië or Eldalondë. It was absurd. She had long ago learned that she could not run. She was bound here by invisible bonds stronger than any chain.  
  
Míriel made her way out of the palace and through the streets of Armenelos. Her worries followed her. No matter how much Pharazôn tried to reassure her that he would not cut down the tree, she knew that it was still in great danger. Fortunately, the king vainly hoped that she might yet bear a child, so that his line would continue. Tar-Palantir had said long ago that their line would only continue if the tree stood in the courts of the King. The tree would stay as long as the king's hope remained, but she feared that he was beginning to give way to his councilor's urgings. Sauron wanted nothing more than to destroy the sacred symbol of the Valar, but Pharazôn's fear had so far kept it safe.  
  
As she walked, she heard one woman shout "Long live the queen!" and she smiled, pushing away her dark thoughts. She signaled her guard to stop and stepped forward to speak with the woman briefly. Her father had taught her that a ruler must know their people, so that they can work to improve their lives. The conversation was short, but her guards and ladies began to scowl nonetheless.  
  
When she had finished speaking with the woman, she turned to her company with an imperious glare. They said nothing, and looked down at the ground. Her power might now be diminished, but she could still command their respect and assume an aura of majesty. To her benefit, in this uninterested state, they rarely paid full attention to her. She had long ago learned to use this against them, but it was no more than another petty game.  
  
They passed into the garden district of the city, a fragrant marketplace full of goods that come from as far as Middle-earth or the Nísimildar. Trees grew by the side of the road, and everywhere there were merchants or farmers selling their produce. As she breathed in the sweet scent, memories of accompanying her father here came back to her. He had loved to go out among his people, making sure that his people were content. She always thought it had made him seem more human to them, rather than a lofty ruler who never descended into the masses. Yet she also remembered being surrounded with royal guards in plain clothes. It had been far too dangerous to go out alone when the King's Men hated them so much. Now she could walk among the King's Men without fearing for her life, although not in the way she had imagined as a child.  
  
Some people stopped to stare at her, but said nothing. Then, one caught her attention. She looked into the steel grey eyes that watched her, and her heart skipped a beat. The man looked utterly unremarkable, the typical young man sent out to fetch a few items at market. He did not appear familiar on first glance, but she knew those eyes. They had been nearly blue when he was born and had turned grey as he grew to be a man. She drew close to him casually, trying not to look as if she intended to speak with him. Her guard followed aimlessly, not noticing her intent.  
  
"Long live the queen," the young man said as she came near. She turned to him to answer.  
  
"Good day, sir," she greeted. He bowed deeply.  
  
"Your majesty."  
  
"Will the moon be full tonight?" she asked slowly. He considered her words carefully and smiled as he answered.  
  
"It has come to its zenith and is ready to wax. Yet I fear it soon shall wane." As he said the last words, he reached out to lay his hand on a tree in a way that seemed natural, but she could see how purposefully it was done.  
  
"What is your business this day, sir?" she asked him.  
  
"I come from a town east of here for such a fruit that can be found in no place but Armenelos." Realization stuck her, and his cryptic words yielded up their meaning to her.  
  
"The fruit is indeed in season. But I fear the price will be high if you are not careful."  
  
"Thank you for your advice, your highness."  
  
"I am your queen, and it is my duty to serve my people. I shall strive to aid you and all my subjects." Her guard was beginning to get restless, and she noticed that they were beginning to wonder why she was speaking so long with this young man. Quickly, she spoke one last time. "Take in the sight of the full moon tonight, and best of luck in your search."  
  
"Farewell, your majesty." He bowed again and melted into the crowd as Míriel's guards and attendant drew in close to her.  
  
"We must make our way to the library more quickly if you are to join the king for dinner this evening," one of her attendants urged her. The queen gave no arguments. Her head was now filled with plans, and she now knew that she would have to return early. There was much to be done before night fell…  
  
Ar-Pharazôn was awoken by a very nervous guard. "Your majesty…" the man stammered, not knowing how to continue. Immediately, the king knew that something had gone very wrong.  
  
"What is going on?" he demanded, sitting up in bed.  
  
"In the court… Nimloth…" The man was stuttering, clearly terrified that he would be punished for being the bearer of bad news. The king was losing his patience, and he was waiting angrily for a concrete report on the problem. He was about to lose his temper when the queen awoke to the sounds of the guard's stammering.  
  
"What is the matter?" she asked, her voice sounding sleepy and calm.  
  
"The white tree… someone has attacked it." Míriel's face seemed to go pale.  
  
"Attacked it? Who would do such a thing?" she demanded, her voice not sounding tired any longer.  
  
"We… we do not know, your highness. It was a tall man, and he fought us when we tried to stop him. Two of our guards were slain by his hand, but he was wounded also. They are searching the city for him now." Pharazôn's anger grew, but he contained it.  
  
"How did someone reach the court of the Kings?" he demanded.  
  
"We were alerted to a threat to the temple where you worship now, my king. It was decided that the men who guarded the court would go to the temple area. We did not think that it was necessary to guard it so heavily because it is in the center, and the areas around it were well guarded. I do not know how he got through all the other guards."  
  
"Go, then, and search for him. Tell the captain of the guard that I will speak with him shortly." The guard bowed and left in a hurry, thankful that the king had done him no harm. Pharazôn threw the covers off with furious force and began to dress himself hastily.  
  
"Incompetence!" he spat, and then he turned to her. "Was it your people who did this? Will they stop at nothing to strike out against me?"  
  
"My people? The tree is sacred to us." Míriel rose from the bed as well and headed over to her own closet. "I only hope that they apprehend whomever Lord Sauron has sent to sabotage Nimloth."  
  
"You are ever too quick to blame Sauron for everything," Pharazôn countered angrily. "If this had been ordered by him or by the King's Men, then I would know it."  
  
"Did you know it?" she asked him, her fury as obvious as his.  
  
"No!" he exclaimed. "And what of you? Did you have any knowledge of this?"  
  
"I had heard in the streets of the plot on the temple, but nothing did I hear of the tree," she told him.  
  
"You knew of the threat on the temple? And you did not tell me?"  
  
"I would have been happy to see your dark temple burn to the ground, Pharazôn. It is an evil blasphemy." He said nothing, seething in anger. As he set his crown upon his head, she quickly searched his face to see if he doubted her. She saw no doubt, only fury, and her heart was eased a little. The king stormed out, and Míriel finished tying the sash to her gown.  
  
She had written a message in simple Sindarin that her handmaidens would understand. It was addressed to a fictional member of the Faithful, saying that she had heard on the streets that the king's dark temple would soon be destroyed. Surely enough, this news had gone directly to Sauron's ears. He had ordered the guards from the courts of the King to protect his precious temple, for it was the device through which he hoped to control Pharazôn. Her diversion had been successful, and she prayed that it had given her fellow conspirator enough time to do what he had come to do.  
  
The guards' false perceptions were a blessing. No one would realize that a fruit from the tree was missing until too late. She must go see the tree herself, to see if a fruit from the tree had been saved, or if the endeavor had failed. The sense of danger that had been growing in her heart was even greater now, but she also felt as if there was a small ray of hope trying to shine through. Yet even with that hope, when she thought of the white tree she felt a great pain. When her eyes shut for a moment, she saw a flash of fire and blood, and she felt like weeping.  
  
The fear threatened to overwhelm her, for she was certain that some great doom was coming. Her mind was filled with fire, and then the screams began. She tried to make the visions go, but as the fire faded, she saw a wounded man trying to run through the streets of a dark city, desperately searching for something. Her visions overwhelmed her, and Míriel fell to her knees. Bowing her head, the queen offered a desperate prayer to Eru, whispering into the night. "Please, protect he who has kept our hopes alive with his valorous deeds. Let him return safely to his wife and child. Oh please, preserve our hope, and do not let us fall into darkness. Do not let Isildur fail."  
  
Author's Note: A thousand apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I had a hard time writing something I was happy with and finding time to write between midterms. Hopefully the next chapter will be out in less than a month, this time. 


	15. The Temple

Author's Note: Sorry it's been so long since my last post. This part of the story is, quite literally, evil. This chapter is a bit short, and I'm not sure if I'm entirely happy with it yet. I figured, though, that I'd get it posted before the dreaded finals week comes. My goal is to have the entire story finished by mid-January. Hopefully the last three chapters will be easier to write than this one has been! As always, if you catch any of my errors, let me know! And please let me know if I've portrayed Sauron's character accurately: he's tricky to figure out. 

"The Temple"

Armenelos

3300, Second Age

With every breath, the stench of smoke filled his nostrils, and he wanted to throw his head back and laugh. The air was hot with the heat of the flames and the smoke that hung about before it slowly made its way out of the louver. The dark smoke contrasted sharply with the brilliant white of the new walls, but soon, those walls would be forever blackened. This fire was only the first…

The fire burned brightly, crackling and hissing as it consumed the white wood of Nimloth. Númenor's white tree was slowly being devoured by the flame, falling into ash and reeking smoke. Now, all the prophecies were dead. All old traditions and foolish hopes had been cut down, just as the tree had. A new age had come. Sauron surveyed all that he had wrought, and he smiled.

He had ordered this temple to be built as soon as he had heard the news of the attack on the white tree, for he had known then that the time for his plans had come. Long had he been making plans for this great temple, and the time had come for his secret designs drawn up in closed chambers to be made real. At his urging, the temple had been erected hurriedly, with little of the intricacies that these foolish Númenoreans normally adorned their buildings with. This place was a monument to strength and power, not beauty or majesty. It rose from the city's central hill five hundred feet into the air, and was as wide at the base as it was tall. The dome set upon the top was covered in silver, the sole adornment on this behemoth. None could look on it without being amazed at its sheer scale. It was a symbol of his power that towered over Armenelos for all to see.

He was now the high priest in this masquerade he had arranged. The people worshipped Melkor readily. They were fools searching for some ideology to cling to, the Valar long abandoned. First, the king had bowed his head to the Lord of Darkness. Then Sauron had spread the dark worship among the counselors and great lords. One by one, they all followed him. Soon, the lords were building temples to Melkor across the land, demanding that their people worship this new god. It had spread more quickly than Sauron had ever expected. The fools knew not what they did. They were blind to his true intentions and followed him without question.

They made everything so easy, he thought, looking out into the crowd that had gathered to see the first fire lit in the great temple. The people of Númenor were so close to falling from grace already. Their jealousy consumed them, the desire for immortality making them vulnerable to his counsel. They would do anything for power and ever-lasting life. Their greed for all things clouded their sense. They were puppets now, eager to follow his every word if it might benefit them.

Soon, he would turn the people of this island against themselves. Brother would slay brother for the sake of power, lords would become tyrants, and the people would overthrow the authority set over them. It would be chaos, beautiful chaos. He would rule over it all and be the one who brought order to the land. The order he brought would run red with the blood of these fools. He had his plans for Númenor…

Long ago, he had known that this island must be destroyed. Its people had grown too powerful and too perilous. He had underestimated them, admittedly. When he had sent out his host, he had expected to crush them with ease. The defeat of his troops had been disappointing, but he had learned many lessons over the years. Some of the greatest victories had been won by subtlety rather than force. With subtlety, he had conquered a proud and mighty people who still did not realize that they had been conquered.

He would shape them to his will and show the world the true nature of Men. They were selfish creatures, desperate to make their mark on the world before they passed beyond its confines. To do so, they would fight, lie, betray, plunder, murder, and whatever else they thought must be done. Ambition was such a wonderful desire to play with. Using men's ambition, he had accomplished much.

The greatest fool of all stood before him. Ar-Pharazôn, king of Númenor was staring at the flame. Although his face displayed confidence and resolve, Sauron could see the fear in his eyes. The King was a fool, but there was still some reserve in his actions. He had not wanted to burn the tree. Sauron remembered well the moment when the king had finally broken down and succumbed to his will. It had been one of his greatest victories.

The day after the attack on Nimloth, Sauron had come to the king, begging him to be done with the last symbol of their friendship with the Valar and their elven servants. Even then, the king had refused, although his counselor had noted the reluctance in his voice. Pharazôn was wavering, not sure of how the attack on the tree and the theft of its fruit would sway his mind. Sauron had left him, and later learned that he had gone to his wife for counsel afterwards.

His meddling queen had, of course, begged him not to harm the tree. If Pharazôn's pride made him weak, then his love made him even weaker. Sauron could not understand why the king would listen to his wife, knowing she despised him and only wanted to further her own Faithful agenda. Why such a mighty king who worshipped the dark god would not dare to disagree with a tiny woman who still clung to a forbidden faith, he did not know. Perhaps the man still believed that he might make her love him.

Or perhaps it was his own fear that stayed his hand. Sauron had heard of Tar-Palantir's prophecy, and knew how much the king still hoped that an heir might be born to continue his line. It was a foolish hope. His queen was barren and growing old. Perhaps if he took a new queen, his hopes might be realized, but he would never forsake his beloved Zimraphel. The king was unsure of what to do or think regarding the tree. He was vulnerable, and if Sauron could find a way around the prophecy, then surely the king would give in.

In the end, Sauron had devised the perfect lie to persuade the king. He had long brooded on how to twist Pharazôn's ambition and pride into something he could wield. In the dark of night, as he scowled and looked out his window that faced towards the west, the answer had come to him. The next morning, he had gone to the king. The king had listened to his words, and then sent him away. However, within the week, he was called back and the king agreed to cut down the tree.

His spies had told him of the tempestuous argument between Ar-Pharazôn and his wife that followed. They had heard him boast that he no longer had any need of heirs, for he would live forever. The tree would be the first sacrifice to ensure this great destiny. This the king proclaimed over the angry protests of his queen. Sauron had heard this and laughed, for he knew that his time had come at last. The time was right for him to set into motion all his dark designs.

All who opposed him would burn on the altars of Melkor. In their desire for life everlasting, those in power would sacrifice the lives of their enemies to prolong their own. Like the servants he had bent to his will with the rings, these Númenoreans would do whatever he commanded them to do in order to avoid death and gain power. Fear would spread throughout the land and make its people weak. None would dare disobey him, and the fools that did would be destroyed. There were none that would have the power to stop him now, not even the queen.

Sauron turned his piercing gaze towards Ar-Zimraphel. The queen knew as well as he did what the destruction of Nimloth meant. Most likely, she had seen visions of the destruction he would bring to Númenor. Long had he suspected that the daughter of Tar-Palantir caught brief glimpses of what was to be. She had no great power, and all that she saw brought her to despair. He could not have devised a better torture for her.

Yet even through her sorrow, she was perilous. The king's love for her was an unbreakable bond, one that prevented Sauron from ever ruling him completely. Zimraphel had no power keep him from achieving his ultimate end, but she had enough influence over Pharazôn to make it more difficult. She was his greatest enemy on Númenor, even over the fool Amandil who persisted in rallying the Faithful.

Now she stood silently by the king, her face a mask of pain. Her clothes were black, as black as the smoke that arose from her beloved tree. There were tears trailing down her cheeks, pouring from grey eyes that seemed to contain endless sorrow. She was mourning the passing of more than a tree; she was weeping for the fall of her people. The queen was not here of her own free will. After refusing to come and watch her husband desecrate the tree and the allegiance of their line, she was told that she would come and she would watch, even if she had to be carried to the temple. Always conscious of the fragile shreds of dignity remaining to her, her own feet had carried her here.

Sauron delighted in her misery. When he had first come, she had struck out at him like a serpent. Now the serpent had no poison, and she knew that her hold on Pharazôn was slipping. Still, she maintained her desperate power games and continued their war of words. Until her last breath, he knew that she would never cease to oppose him and fight for what she wanted. She was not so different from all the others of her foolish line.

There were some who compared her to her foremother, Lúthien. He could see in the willful queen of Númenor pieces of the witch who had thrown down his tower. To compare their beauty was foolish, for never again would Middle-earth see a lady more fair than Lúthien, daughter of Thingol and Melian. Yet the two had the same dark hair that fell like a shadow, the same proud bearing, and the same eyes that glittered like stars, although Zimraphel's eyes had become more like the gleam of cold steel.... Both were proud and spoke in a way that made it clear that they were not to be denied. And both would die before their time.

Yes, the queen would die and curse all that had come to pass. He knew that it was she who planned the battle that had brought him to Númenor. Her pride, nearly the match of her husband's, had given him his this great victory. One day, he would thank her for that. Knowing the self-righteous woman, she must blame herself for all that he had wrought on Númenor. How perfect. Knowing what she had brought on her people would plague her until the end of her days. Let the weight of it darken her soul, he thought to himself. It was only fitting that the proud queen should fall to the consequences her own arrogance, that her own game of manipulation be turned against her. She had thought herself so far above the King's Men, so far above her husband. In the end, she was like all her kind: weak, foolish, and fearful.

It was a pity that she would never burn on the altar to Melkor. The king would never allow it. Perhaps, the councilor thought, as he watched the pain and grief tear the small queen apart, for her to go on living in such a hell was worse than death. "It will get worse, before the end," he promised her silently. "Before your time has come, you will pray for death and Eru will ignore your pleas. You will learn the true meaning of suffering, far beyond anything you can even imagine. Perhaps you see even now what is to come. Look upon the future, pitiful Child of Lúthien, and despair!"


	16. The Secret: Part One

The Secret: Part One  
3319, Second Age  
Rómenna 

The small cart was headed towards the house, the horses hurrying over the unpaved road. From inside the gate, Isildur watched as it approached him, wondering who its passengers were. It drew closer and the horses slowed. The man driving the cart called out to him. "Open the gates quickly, Isildur. I have important business to discuss."

Isildur hurried to open the gate and looked up at the driver, confusion evident on his face. "Eärdur? I thought that you had gone to Armenelos?"

"I did," came the answer. Upon closer examination, he saw that Eärdur had been laden down with many large boxes and packages. Between them sat an old woman, hunched over and wrapped in a cloak. A few wisps of grey hair hung out of the hood, but he could not clearly see her face. She was silent, and did not look up. Perhaps she was sleeping. Isildur hoped so, and regretted speaking so soon. In these days, there were few that could be trusted.

"Who do you bring with you?" he asked quietly when Eärdur drew near. The servant looked back at the old woman.

"One of us," was his simple answer. The woman stirred, and Eärdur walked around to help her out of the cart. Isildur watched as he took the old woman's withered hand and helped her climb down carefully from her perch amid the boxes. She said nothing as she descended, and Eärdur began to lead her towards the house. "Come," he said, turning to Isildur. "Let us go inside where we may speak at length."

This situation was getting stranger by the moment, the son of Elendil thought to himself as he followed Eärdur and the old woman towards the manor. Once inside, he noticed that the woman was no longer leaning on Eärdur for support. "Who are you, madam?" he asked, as kindly as he could, though he knew that suspicion was fighting its way into his tone.

"For one so talented in the art of disguise, you have no skill at seeing through the disguises of others," came the voice from beneath the hood. Isildur smiled then, for he knew that voice. This voice had read him stories when he was a tiny boy. This voice had reminded him not to run through the halls, or at least not unless he intended to race her.

"Aunt Míriel? How did you manage this?" he asked. She looked up at him and smiled.

"With great care," was her reply. "When you sent Eärdur to Armenelos, he managed to meet with me in secret. I have some secrets of my own, so I arranged to travel here to Rómenna without my usual escort."

"But how?" the younger man pressed.

"My handmaiden's tea was a bit too strong for them," the queen told him, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "My guards happened to drink the same tea, I suppose. They fell asleep in the library while I was copying manuscripts. I disappeared into the halls of the library and came to the place where Eärdur was living. We put together a disguise for me, and so escaped the city."

Eärdur looked outside at the cart. "I must bring in the boxes. If I could have some help we can get them inside before anyone wonders what they contain." Now Isildur's curiosity was even greater.

"What have you brought with you?"

"For now, that is another one of my secrets. First, I would speak with your father," Míriel told him, and the light faded from her eyes. Suddenly, she truly seemed old. Her eyes were tired, and her face betrayed a great sadness.

"I am sorry," Isildur told her. "My father left yesterday on business. He does not plan to return until this afternoon." The queen nodded and looked down at the old cloak she had wrapped around her.

"I can wait a few hours. Perhaps I might clean myself up a little?" She pulled her hood back, revealing coils of greyed hair and a face covered in cosmetics to make it seem older.

"Of course," Isildur was quick to reply. "Elhíril can help you find what you need. Do you have clean clothes?"

"Somewhere," she replied. "However, I fear they may be buried beneath the boxes; yet another reason to bring the cargo in soon. If you would, help Eärdur carry them in, and have Anárion do the same. Do not open them yet. I mean for them to be a surprise."

"As you wish," the young man answered. "I think you will find Elhíril in the sitting room in this hall. It is the second door on the left." With that, he followed Eärdur out to the courtyard to begin bringing in the many crates and boxes. Míriel sighed, thankful that this part of her journey was complete. She was safe, and soon she would speak with her cousin and give him her message.

Just as Isildur said, his wife, Elhíril, was in the sitting room reading. Overjoyed to see the queen, she rose and greeted her with a warm embrace. The young woman looked much older than the last time Míriel had seen her. The great pain Elhíril had endured had not made her any less cheerful, and she had the sweetest disposition of anyone Míriel had ever known. Her questions were careful and always tactful, but still difficult to answer. The news from Armenelos these days was always dark, and the queen found herself wishing that she had some good news to give Elhíril. She was thankful when she was left alone to wash away her disguise and the dirt from her journey.

Later, there was a knock on the door. A girl's voice told her that there were clean clothes outside the door. It was a voice that Míriel did not recognize, probably one of Anárion's young daughters. Opening the door slightly, Míriel pulled in a clean blue dress. Carefully, she fastened the shoulder clasps and tied a belt around her waist. She pulled back the sides of her hair and fastened them with the few pins she had from her disguise. Looking in a mirror that lay on a table, her reflection calmed her. She was no longer the magnificent queen of Númenor, nor the ragged old woman, but simply Míriel.

When she left the washroom some time later, she found three people waiting for her. Elhíril stood behind two girls. Identical in appearance, they were both tall with blond hair and grey eyes. They looked nervous, as if they weren't sure if she would approve of them or not. Perhaps in their eyes, she was still a queen and not their kinswoman. Míriel mustered a warm smile. "I have not seen you two since you were babies. It is as Anárion has written: you have grown into lovely young women." One tried hard to maintain her serious demeanor, but the other broke out into a grin.

"I'm glad we can finally meet you…" the grinning girl searched for a name or title, but stopped.

"You may call me Aunt Míriel, if you wish," the queen said warmly. "Your father did."

"Even I called you Aunt Míriel," Elhíril laughed. "For an only child, you certainly have many nieces and nephews."

"Father has told us lots of stories about you," the more serious twin finally said. "He said that you love lore almost as much as Grandfather does."

"He has also told me that you are quite the scholar," Míriel agreed. "Perhaps sometime we may share tales of old, Anduniel." That brought a slight smile to the girl's face. She looked so young, and yet it had seemed like yesterday when they had been infants. Míriel had not seen them since Isildur and Elhíril's wedding 21 years ago. It made her feel old: Elendil's children were having children of their own…

"Let us find somewhere to sit comfortably while you wait for Elendil," Elhíril suggested. Míriel nodded, and they headed down the hallway.

"I'm amazed you can tell us apart," the smiling twin said as they made their way towards a parlor. "Everyone always thinks I'm Anduniel and she's Romeniel. Sometimes even Grandfather gets confused."

"He does it on purpose to tease us," the other twin replied. "He knows very well which one of us is which." Míriel smiled, and was glad that her cousin still had some joy in his life. Hers had become so empty, so bleak… She willed the darkness away. Now she was in Rómenna, in her cousin's house, and she would not let herself fade into her own dark thoughts. Not when she had the chance to know this new generation of her family.

As they approached the parlor, she heard the careless laughter of a young child, followed by that of an older woman.

"The queen is coming!" the little voice exclaimed happily. "Can I really call her Aunt Míriel?"

"You may," came an older voice. "But be on your best behavior and don't climb all over her like you do with the rest of your family."

"Is she having a baby like you?"

"No, my little bird, but I do not think she is used to having small girls like you trying to climb her like a tree." The door was opened, and Míriel looked in and saw two redheads sitting on a couch. As soon as she walked in, the little girl flew across the room and wrapped her little arms around Míriel.

"You're short," was the first thing the girl said. "Grandmother is tall, but you aren't. Shouldn't old people get really, really tall?"

"Tasarwen!" the redheaded woman exclaimed from the couch. "What a way to greet the queen of Númenor!"

"Oops!" the child exclaimed, stepping back. She took a deep breath and said: "Pleased to meet you, Aunt Míriel."

"The pleasure is mine, Tasarwen," the queen said, unable to hide her delight at the young child's enthusiasm and energy. She looked up at the girl's mother. "How are you doing, Finárë?"

"Well enough with this baby trying to kick its way out," she replied, laying a hand on her protruding stomach. "They say it is not long before the child will be born, and I am grateful."

"Father is nervous," Romeniel announced. "He's convinced that the baby will be born any minute now."

Anduniel shook her head. "He shouldn't be. He's gone through it twice before." Míriel smiled and settled herself in a chair in the sitting room. It wasn't long before Tasarwen clambered up onto her knee. She tried to sit very still, but it was impossible for the five year old not to fidget. Míriel truly did not mind, and a quick glance at Finárë told the young mother not to worry. Isildur had been the same at this age: unable to sit still for long. She had almost forgotten what it was like to be around a young child. It was a pleasant reminder, to sit and speak with the women of the household and enjoy their company. Time passed, and Míriel felt more at ease than she had in a decade.

Tasarwen was chattering away when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," Finárë called, and the door swung open a little. A dark haired young man leaned in.

"Grandfather is back," he said seriously. Míriel looked at him, amazed at what she saw. He looked just like Elendil had when he was very young; he had the same hair, the same eyes, the same tone of voice. This must be Elendur, Elhíril and Isildur's only son. They had named him well: he truly took after his grandfather.

"Thank you, Elendur," his mother told him. "We will be down in a moment." The young man lingered in the door, clearly trying to decide whether to introduce himself to the newcomer or go back to give his grandfather the message.

"The boxes have all been brought in…" He, too, had difficulty settling on a title for her.

"You can call her Aunt Míriel!" Tasarwen announced. "I do, and so do Anda and Roma!" Her older cousin smiled slightly at this outburst, then looked up at Míriel.

"I'm glad I finally get to meet you… Aunt Míriel. Grandfather says you've done a lot for us from the capital." She knew what he was trying to say, and was amazed that such a young man would speak of such serious matters. These dark times forced children to grow up too quickly.

"I am glad to meet you, too, Elendur," Míriel replied. "I am sorry that I could not have come earlier to see you and your family."

"We understand," Anduniel assured her.

"I am sorry, but I must excuse myself for now," the queen told the others in the room. "I have to speak with Elendil."

"Not fair!" was Tasarwen's complaint. "You just got here!"

"I will be back. Perhaps I can even tell you a bedtime story later?" Finárë nodded. She was probably glad to have some reprieve from the boundless energy of her youngest daughter. Tasarwen seemed to accept the peace offering, and hopped down off Míriel's knee.

"Come on, Tasarwen! Let's go play with your dolls," Romeniel told her little sister. The young girl eagerly followed her older sister out of the room, with Anduniel trailing behind. Míriel smiled and got up from her chair, and after thanking Elhíril and Finárë for their help, left the room with Elendur.

"Has your grandfather been gone often?" Míriel asked as they walked towards the stairs.

"He has to go get supplies a lot," Elendur replied. "That's what Father tells me. Sometimes Father goes too, but mostly he stays here. I think it is to make Mother happy. She hates it when he must leave."

"I would imagine so," Míriel said quietly. She could not imagine what Elhíril had gone through after Isildur had returned with the fruit of Nimloth. Celaurien had written her many months after she had met Isildur in the marketplace of Armenelos. The letter had been cleverly coded, but from it Míriel had learned that Elendil's son had been close to death for many months, only awakening when the seedling sprouted from the ground. Elendur had been too young to remember anything, but she wondered what effect his father's convalescence and his mother's grief had on him.

She did not wonder long, for they were met by Elendil as they went down the stairs. He said nothing when they were face to face, simple bending down and wrapping her in a tight embrace. At last, he released her, and she could almost feel the joy radiating from him. "In our darkest hour, a light shines upon the house of Andunië!" he exclaimed. The older man turned to his grandson. "Many thanks, my swift messenger."

"You are welcome, grandfather," the young man replied, going back up the stairs. Both cousins watched him go.

"He reminds me of you when you were that age," Míriel said as soon as he was gone. "It is remarkable. Yet there is none of you in Anárion's girls. They are more like their mother, although I see hints of Celaurien in the twins."

"Grandchildren…" Elendil sighed. "It is a pity you could not have been here to watch them grow. It was particularly interesting with the twins and Elendur born so close together. The place was overrun by small children." He kept staring at the top of the staircase. "They grow up so quickly."

"Too quickly, in these dark times," Míriel replied. Her cousin nodded, and then gestured for her to follow him. Together, they descended the staircase and walked into a room off the main corridor. It was filled with boxes, those she had brought with her from Armenelos.

"We may talk in here without fear of interruption," he explained. "We have much to speak of."

"Indeed, Cousin."


	17. The Secret: Part Two

"The Secret: Part Two" Rómenna  
3319, Second Age

There was so much to say. They had not met face to face in many years and little could be said in their letters without fear of discovery. Míriel sat down on a box carefully and began to speak. "I have spoken to Eärdur. I know what he was sent to do. It was a futile mission: the few Faithful that once lived in Armenelos have fled or…" Her voice faltered as memories assaulted her. It rushed through her mind: the screams, the cries, the crackling of the flames, the putrid smell. She felt nauseous, and she shut her eyes, praying for it all to stop. "There are none of our people left in that forsaken place. If there are, then they cannot be found. Eärdur could find none that could be trusted, none that could come here. Only me."

"Isildur told me how you came here. It was a dangerous risk you took. They will realize what has happened, and then they will be looking for you." He was as realistic as always.

"They will not think to look here. Pharazôn thinks me a sentimental fool, but he has granted all of my requests to visit you here. I have never kept my visits to you a secret before. He will not expect it. Nor will Sauron, I think. They have been suspicious lately that I will try and escape. Let them think that I have run away to the Meneltarma or to Andustar. They will search and find nothing. I have been very careful in this, for I cannot fail this time." Míriel fixed a piercing gaze on her cousin.

"Tell me," she said. "Where is Amandil? Little have I heard of him from Eärdur, only that he meant to leave Númenor for a time. I sense that there is more to his design than this." It was little surprise to him that she said this with such conviction. Of all people on this isle, Míriel deserved to know of this plan. After all, it had been her carefully encrypted information that had begun the endeavor.

"After you sent word of Pharazôn's plans, we knew that there was no other choice. He cannot be allowed to make war upon the Valar. Yet we alone cannot stop him."

"Has he gone to the elves?" Míriel asked him, her brow furrowing. "I fear that even the power of the elves cannot withstand the army he will soon call to him."

"Amandil sails to those who are yet higher than the elves," Elendil responded, and Míriel's eyes widened in disbelief.

"He walks in the footsteps of Eärendil…" She stared at her cousin, and suddenly she could hear the sound of the sea beating against the hull of a boat and the nervous voices of men. Shaking her head, the sounds faded into silence. "I wondered why he was not here with you making ready to board the ships."

"He has a greater mission," Elendil said. "It has been nearly a week since he has set out, and we have had no sign yet either of success or failure. I have prayed night and day that he may succeed, although I know what I must do if we fail." His head dropped, and she knew he was fiercely praying that he would never have to deal with the consequences of failure.

"What happens now is beyond your control, Elendil," she told him. "You cannot ensure his success, nor can you change what Ar-Pharazôn means to do. Do not blame yourself." He looked her in the eyes, and she saw that her words rang true. Since he was young, her cousin had always taken everything on himself. He held himself responsible for every man he commanded as a captain. He held himself responsible for the safety and happiness of his entire household. Sometimes, she wondered if he felt responsible for her life as well.

Elendil did not answer her. He only looked at her, and the pain in his grey eyes told her everything. Every member of the Faithful that burned on the altar of Melkor was like a brand on his heart, a burden on his soul. "The darkness that has enveloped this land will take the lives of the innocent, no matter how we fight it. No matter how many we save, the darkness will claim many more. You cannot save everyone."

Even as she said it, vivid memories returned to her. Long had she kept her sorrow deep inside her heart, and now she poured out the pain she had endured these long years. "I have tried to save my people, but I cannot save everyone. It is something I must accept, or else I would go mad with the grief. How do you look at a mother and tell her that you were able to spare the life of her child but that she must die by fire and blade? What do you tell the child?" Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

"And yet she went to her death and did not weep. It was enough for her that her boy would live. I led the child away from the cell, never to see his mother again. I saved him. But it wasn't enough. No matter how many we save, it is never enough." Savagely, she wiped the tears from her eyes. "I cannot endure their pain, Elendil. I look around Armenelos, and all I see is fire and blood. Men kill each other in the street without reason. Bloody riots destroy entire villages and towns. There are too many orphans and not enough orphanages." The grief within her turned to anger.

"And all is the design of Sauron," Elendil spat. "Celaurien has tracked his spies. They go about the land, creating chaos and ill will wherever they go. They set man against man and make false accusations against those who stand against them. All on his orders."

"They are no longer men, but demons," Míriel spat. "Sauron easily dominates the wills of lesser men. More and more fall to him everyday: they are blinded by his offer of power and in doing his bidding, they sacrifice the last shreds of humanity that remain to them. None dare to oppose him, for they know what awaits those who stand against the King and his counselor."

"That the Edain could ever commit such atrocities, I never imagined," Elendil muttered. "How can they still worship at the temple? How can they so cruelly end the lives of their fellow men?"

"Power and fear." She did not need to say any more. Of all men driven by power and fear, Pharazôn was the worst of them all. He drove his armies on to conquer more territory and more people so he could offer more sacrifices to his dark god. The power was what he thought he craved, but it was his fear that truly drove him. There was nothing he feared more than death, and he would do whatever he could to drive off that inevitable event. He would even cause the deaths of thousands of others. With every new sacrifice, Sauron would whisper in his ear that he was another step closer to immortality. Yet the fear grew every year, and so the king desperately tried harder and harder to appease the insatiable appetite of Death.

"Accursed king," Elendil growled, knowing his cousin's thoughts. "I wish he had never been born. When he sailed on Umbar, he doomed us all. What was he thinking, to make war on Sauron himself? How could he be so foolish as to think he could make a prisoner of a Maia?" Míriel let her head drop, unable to look him in the eyes.

Every day, she lived with the knowledge. Even as she cursed Pharazôn for his pride, she knew that her own pride was as much to blame for what had come to pass here. If she had never goaded him into war, if she had not been so foolish and arrogant, then perhaps this evil would never have come to Númenor. The guilt settled on her like a great weight, pulling her down into despair. Every time she saw the soldiers leading more victims towards the temple, the painful knowledge resounded through her. It was her doing. She had dreamed of accomplishing a great victory, but had instead brought on the downfall of her people and her land.

She was accursed. All she did was perverted and twisted into something evil and unholy. There was no penance she could do to repair the harm she had done. So each day, she endured the suffering, knowing that it was no more than she deserved. It was her own doing that had triggered this terrible chain of events, and now she must bear it. Elendil could sense the uncomfortable silence, and came closer to her.

"Míriel? What is it?"

How could she say it? How could she tell her beloved cousin what she had done? He loved and respected her. What would he say if he knew the truth? She could not bear for him to hate her, too. He was the only family she had left. If he drew away from her, then she would have no one to trust, no one left in her life to love. No, she could not tell him. Her pride was still too strong to admit such a transgression. Let Elendil continue to think that she could not have stopped Pharazôn's madness. Let him believe that she had never done anything that led to evil. Let her be unblemished in his memory.

"Some days, I do not know how I can go on," she finally said. "There is so much darkness, and I know I must endure it." Her cousin came and sat down on the box next to her. He looked down at put an arm around her.

"I often think of you, and what you are suffering in the presence of such evil. I know you are strong, Cousin, but no one should have to bear the things you have borne. I am sorry that I could not protect you. When we were young, I swore that I would always be there for you, to take care of you. Do you remember?" Míriel nodded.

"No brother could have done better," she told him gently. "There was nothing you could do to stop this. There is nothing you can do now. I was never meant to be saved, Elendil." His eyes said otherwise, but he did not argue with her. She would not let him blame himself for this. "You could not have stood against Pharazôn when he took the scepter and married me. You could not have stopped him from sailing on Umbar. You could not have stopped him from listening to Sauron. We must do what we can, and that must be enough. You cannot forever mourn for what might have been, for it will never be. Our people need you to live in the present and look to the future, not grieve for the failures of the past."

"It is easier said than done." Her pulled his arm away and rested his hands on his knees. "Can you tell me that you do not grieve for what you could not save?"

"I do. Yet more important to me is what I have saved." Míriel stood and went over to one of the boxes that had been brought into the room. She undid the ropes that fastened it shut and pried open the lid. Curious, Elendil stood and walked up to the box. It was filled with parchment, rows of scrolls laid carefully inside of it. Míriel drew one out and unrolled it, then handed it to her cousin.

"This is one of the ancient histories," he marveled. "And this crest is that of the Royal Library!" He turned to her in surprise. "How did you manage to bring this here?"

She gestured around the room at all of the boxes. "There are many things here like that scroll. Since I learned of Pharazôn's plans to sail on Valinor, I have been hoarding many such items in secret. These boxes contain scrolls filled with the knowledge of our ancient isle. They contain weapons, and armor, and things of great beauty. There are heirlooms of the house of Elros here, as many as I could save." She picked up a smaller box and brushed her fingers against the smooth lid. "This box contains some of the oldest of the queen's jewels. There are pieces here that have come from the Eldar, created in ages long past. Others were made in our days of glory. I wish to preserve the memory of our greatness, even when our people sail away to foreign shores."

"Yet there is still much that was too heavily guarded to save. I fear the King's sword shall be lost, and many of the great weapons the King keeps guarded in his armory. Yet I have saved my father's sword, and many other ancient weapons. They will serve you well, should you ever have the need to use them."

"How can I begin to thank you? This is a mighty gift you bestow upon us," Elendil said in wonder as he looked at the boxes filling the room.

"I have saved what I can," Míriel said. "I would have something of Númenor live on." Suddenly, she shivered. It had grown unbearably cold in the room, as if all the warmth were being drawn from it. The light from the windows seemed to fade until all was darkness. It loomed over her, and then covered her completely. She yearned for the light and the warmth to return, but she could not escape the terrible dark dread that consumed her. She finally found herself mumbling. "All else will fall into darkness and destruction. Nine ships will sail on the darkness, and so come into the light."

"Destruction?" Elendil grew anxious, not understanding the meaning of his cousin's words. "What destruction do you think will occur?" As he spoke, it seemed to Míriel that the darkness faded and light returned.

"I do not know. There are times when I simply… know. It feels so certain. It is as if a trusted counselor has whispered in my ear. Doom is upon Númenor. The sins of its people can no longer be ignored. We are hurrying towards our doom. You know this, and so did Amandil. That is why he is gone. Yet I have less hope than he did. I do not believe there is anything that can save us now. Even the mighty may fall, and fall the Númenoreans shall."

"What more have you seen?" Elendil asked her softly. "Have you seen that my father will fail in his mission? Have you seen the end coming for us?" She did not answer for a moment, just looking off into the air. "Tell me," he begged his cousin. "What have you seen?"

"Seen?" she finally responded. "I have seen nothing. My father had visions, but I have wisps of memory, snatches of sound, feelings, a sense of darkness and light. Even in Armenelos, in my waking hours, I hear the sea. I can feel the darkness growing, surrounding the island. There is a certainty that fills me. I think it is warning me."

"Warning you of what?" Elendil demanded eagerly.

"An end to all that we have known. To sail on Valinor is to go against the very foundations of this world. Pharazôn and Sauron are challenging the Ban; they are even challenging the judgment of Eru. Pharazôn will never stop seeking immortality, and Sauron will never stop until he has destroyed us."

"You think he will succeed?"

"No…" she said slowly. "I do not think he will have the victory he desires. Even if he does, it will not be complete, for part of Númenor will be saved." Elendil smiled.

"That is why we are making ready the ships. Soon, a part of this isle will be carried away, beyond the reach of his foul machinations. Hope will endure."

"Hope…" The word was so simple, so short a word for such a great force. Once Míriel had hope in her heart that she might turn Pharazôn away from Sauron's words. She had hope that some good might come of her being the wife of the king. Yet all her hope had turned to despair. In the midst of the darkness, the fire, and the sounds of the sea, all her hope had been drowned in sorrow. There was no hope for her now.

When Míriel looked on Elendil, she saw light and goodness and hope that were untainted by evil. "Yes, hope will endure," she said quietly, her face still very grave. "From you and your line shall spring hope, and it will drive away the darkness."

"I am glad that there is still some light left in your world, Míriel," her cousin said going to sit down again. "Soon we will leave this place, and we shall have hope again. If we go to the east, then you shall see Galisil again and…" He looked at the dark haired woman who stood before him. She was fighting to hold back her tears, her hands clenched at her sides. She would not look him in the eyes, staring down at the ground as the tears finally came.

"All the hope I have lies in you. I have no hope for myself, nor for Númenor." The words were so hard to say, but she knew that he would understand. Still, she wept as she said them, for there was no way to avoid the bitterness of their parting. She had brought a few baubles and blades, but she could not go with him. He would have to leave her behind.

"You… You have not come to escape with us."

"I have come to say farewell." She watched as he put his head in his hands and the pain of realization washed through him. Not able to bear his grief, she went over to him and laid a hand gently on his shoulder. "Please, do not grieve for me like this. I… I have lived too long in this marred existence. So many years of sorrow and fear and anger… I do not want it any more. Even if I went with you, across the sea, wherever I went, this pain would remain. You fear that I will die, but do not! For when death comes for me, I will welcome it."

"Do not say that!" Elendil exclaimed looking up at her. "You are too young to die!" He paused a moment, then began again more timidly. "Are you truly so unhappy that you desire an ending?"

"My father once told me that death was a Gift from Eru. I could not understand then, for I did not yet feel the great weariness that I feel now. Since arriving here, I have been happy. But even that happiness can not drive away the sorrow the long years have brought me. I am tired, Elendil, tired of enduring the pain that comes with each passing day. I have loved and I have hated. I have succeeded and I have failed. I have held newborn children in my arms and watched them open their eyes, and I have watched people die. It is my time."

"Does it hasten upon me, too, this weariness?" Elendil muttered. Míriel heard his desperate whisper, and hastened to drive away his fears.

"Your time will come, too, but not for many years yet. For the light in you will sustain you. You still have hope, Elendil, and much to do in this world. Yes, you have much to do before you may find repose. I can feel it even now: great victories, cities that reach toward the heavenly bodies for which they are named, a lineage of hope and light amidst darkness…"

The knowledge faded from her mind, and a great sadness filled her. "You will go, and when you do, I ask of you a single favor." Míriel went over to one of the boxes and opened it. Amidst the clothes she had brought from Armenelos was a sealed letter. Carefully, she slid it out of the box and held it reverently in her hands. "Please… Deliver this for me. I have heard that he has settled near the Bay of Belfalas." Her voice broke as she spoke, and he could feel her sorrow.

She placed it in his hands slowly, as if letting go of it would mean letting go of her very life. As she did so, she did not weep, for this was a pain too great for tears. He took it from her and looked down at the thick letter in his hands. It was addressed to Lord Galisil in her flowing hand, the ink as red as blood against the parchment. As he felt the bundle, he noticed two small objects were. He knew what they were: two rings from slender finders. He looked up at her in surprise, unable to understand.

"Tell him…" Míriel tried to say. "Tell him…" She broke off, her voice failing her. For a while, she was quiet, staring at the letter. Then, she said "I cannot find the words. He will know what I leave unsaid. He has always known."

"There is nothing I can say to make you come with me?" he asked desperately

"I cannot leave Númenor," came the answer. "Even for love, I cannot abandon my land." She deserved to stay, Míriel thought bitterly. She would stay and face the doom she had brought upon this place.

Elendil clutched the letter tightly, as if he could hold onto her by holding onto her letter. "You will never be forgotten," he promised. "I will write the history of this land, and I will make sure that everyone knows what you have done. I will make you a legend, the equal of Lúthien." His cousin only shook her head and wrapped her arms around him, as she did when they were young, when she would go running to him after a fierce storm or bad dream.

"No… Do not write of me so. You should write of hope: there is enough despair without any more tales of it. Tell the story of the Faithful, and how they have endured through all trials. Tell your own story, Elendil. That is hope. That is the story that will endure."

"I will not have you fade into the past," he whispered sadly. "You do not deserve to be forgotten."

"Then tell what little of me you must," she instructed him. "Say only that Míriel was a true daughter of the line of Elros and that she was queen. Yes… Tar-Míriel the Queen. That is how I would have it." She released her cousin and took another look at him. Yes, there was grief in his eyes, but there was also hope, and a destiny far beyond his imagination. He would come through the darkness that she could not escape. Her hope would survive. And that would have to be enough. 


	18. The Storm

"The Storm"

Armenelos  
3319, Second Age

Míriel lay awake, staring at the ornately painted ceiling of the royal bedchamber. Sleep would not come; Lórien had forsaken her. Waking and sleeping began to blur together, a seamless flow of darkness and light. She could never be sure if she were asleep, or merely having another vision. Her attendants tried desperately to hide the dark circles under her eyes as desperately as they tried to keep her hair dyed black.

The grey was creeping through her hair, and Míriel felt weary to the bone. Every day was becoming a struggle. She was growing old. They said she still looked young, but she did not feel it. It felt as if she had aged 300 years in the past 30 days. It was getting harder and harder to endure this life, but there was no other choice. Deep within her, she knew that she could not yet leave the world.

She listened to the windows as they shook with the force of the storm outside. Rain and hail pounded against the window and lightning flashed through the sky. Peals of thunder rolled in the distance. The storm was dying down, but the Valar's wrath weighed as heavily on her mind as when it had begun. It was no use to think about it: Pharazôn would not be swayed.

By the light of the lamp Pharazôn always kept lit, she could see his face clearly. He slept uneasily now, often tossing and turning with nightmares. For the moment, he was quiet and still, one arm draped over her. She wondered how grey his hair would be if he did not have it colored and why he persisted in taking elixirs to keep his skin from wrinkling. Her husband was approaching death just as she was. He was getting old, and it terrified him.

Lately, he had developed a fear of the darkness. Wherever he went, there must always be a light. Even while they slept, there must be light in case he woke up in the middle of the night. Perhaps he thought that if he could keep his world filled with light, then he would never slip away into the darkness beyond the world. The fool. All men were destined to die, and death would come even for the mighty king of Númenor.

Pharazôn had sacrificed countless Faithful to keep death from coming for him, yet it did no good. Sauron whispered lies in his ear, and the king would do anything to ensure his immortality. The more the king strove to attain his goal, the more he ensured his doom. His fear, his pride, and his fierce determination had led him down a path from which he could no longer turn back. Míriel mourned, for she knew that Arda would suffer for his actions.

As she looked at her husband sleeping, painful memories flooded her thoughts. It was too much. She had to leave this place and clear her mind. Carefully, she slipped out of bed. She was not careful enough, for Pharazôn woke as soon as she moved. "What are you doing?" he asked sleepily.

"I cannot sleep. I am going for a walk," she said simply.

"You hardly ever sleep, Zimraphel," was his reply. He propped himself up a little to look at her as she moved over to her wardrobe. He was being sincere, and she knew that he was worried for her. "Whenever I wake in the night, I find you staring off into the distance. Only a few times have you been asleep, and even then you mumble nonsense."

"I am fine." Her voice was cold and clearly sent the message that she did not wish to argue with him. There had been enough of that before they had laid down to sleep.

"Fine indeed," he muttered. "Wander the halls like a ghost, if you will." He settled himself back down to sleep, and she shook her head. She could not understand how he still cared about her, after all that Sauron planted in his mind. It was the one part of his humanity that had remained through everything. She had hoped that she could use it to make him see the senselessness of his recent actions. In the depths of her mind, she had clung to the hope that she could redeem him. It had been a futile dream.

The night before he had publicly announced that the ships and army of Númenor was to gather in the west, she had begged him not to go. She had used every way she knew to convince him: logic, offerings of power, threats of doom. She had even begged him, thrown herself at his feet and wept. What little dignity remained to her she had thrown away in that last attempt. Even after all her efforts, she had failed. Nothing she could do would sway him.

It was partially for her that he was sailing on Valinor, he said. They would never have children, and so they had no other choice but to claim immortality in order to continue the line of Eärendil. Even as she wept at his feet, he knelt and told her that he had once made a vow that they would be together forever. He would not lose her to death. She could think of no worse fate than to be trapped in this world with him for all eternity.

Míriel had tried to tell him that she desired an ending. She tried to convince him that she could not stay in this world long. He had silenced her, unable to listen to her speak words of death and darkness. He did not understand when she insisted that death was a gift. Perhaps it was his doubt that kept him from accepting it. Míriel had no doubt about what she would find beyond the edges of the world. Peace, love, rest… It was waiting for her, and soon she would embrace it.

She pulled on a velvet dressing gown. It was deep blue, like an evening sky. Along the edges was heavy silver and pale blue embroidery: a pattern of waves rising and falling across the robe. There were bright jewels sprinkled across the dressing gown as well, sparkling like stars against the field of blue. It was a work of art, an expression of the majesty and wealth of the royal house. To her, it was yet another sign of this false life she led. Every day, she was dressed in magnificent gowns and in her hair were set priceless jewels. She had become little more than a visual reminder of the majesty of the royal line of Númenor.

She found another lantern and lit it with the already burning candle in the other. Then she glided out of the room, wishing she had put on slippers as soon as she stepped off the carpet onto the cold stone floor. Míriel did not go back, but rather kept walking out of the bedroom, going into the long corridor. The hall's only window was on the northern side at the other end of the hall. Even from here, she could see that the storm was quiet. The rain had stopped for the moment and the wind was not as fierce. She made her way through the halls and soon found herself in front of the door that led to the courts of the King.

It was more splendid than ever, if one measured splendor in the number of beautiful marble fountains or other works of cold stone and metal. To her, it was a tainted and twisted remnant of what it had once been. Very few living things would abide here any more. The tree was gone, an empty patch of ground marking where it had once stood. The rotting stump of Nimloth had been long since removed, but no one had dared erect any fountains or statues on the ground.

This place was a reflection of all of Númenor: a barren remnant of a once beautiful and vibrant place. All that was left was death and decay and cold stone. Míriel hated what this place had become. She looked up at the statue of Pharazôn that stood before her. It stood tall and proud, its beaten gold and inlaid jewels glinting in the light of her lamp. Next to it was a statue of herself. She hated this most of all. It was a perfect likeness of her, her own face looking down disdainfully upon her. It had no warmth and its expression was not one she would have made. It was lofty, distant, and so very cold.

Míriel held the hem of her robe up out of the mud as she moved past the statues toward the few green things that still clung to life. Around the great emptiness where Nimloth had once been a few stubborn plants that clung to life. She could remember her father planting these, on a bright morning beneath the shade of the white tree. These desperate plants were content with what little sun they could get. The sun… She longed to see the sun and moon. All she could see now were clouds. They veiled the sky and seemed to press down upon Númenor. Míriel could hardly bear it.

There were so many storms now, and some of the ships on their way to the western coast on the king's command were shattered against the rocks during these squalls. It would rain for days at a time, until the lowlands would flood. None could live along the rivers, for they would flow over their banks during the storms. Sometimes, ice would fall from the sky, damaging houses. It was a nightmare from which they could not escape. Míriel had wondered if they were some kind of punishment. Then the eagles came.

They were made of clouds, and would rise up from the Undying Lands. Swiftly they came upon Númenor, darkening the sky and shutting out the last bright rays of sunlight. The first time she had seen them come, it had been so utterly dark that she had wondered if death had come for them at last. It was not so, and she could not say whether this made her sad or relieved. The eagles had brought with them the first lightning storms. The white bolts had leapt down from the underside of the eagles' wings, smiting many men who stood in the open and defied the might of the Valar. Yet they held not the power to destroy the one being on the island who truly had brought on this wrath.

When she saw the eagles, Míriel had realized that this was only a sign of doom, and not doom itself. When she had tried to tell Pharazôn this, Sauron laughed at her and her husband soon joined him. Sauron was convinced that these storms were the Valar's way of punishing Númenor. "A pitiful army they send: clouds and ice. We will send mighty ships, filled with mighty men. Then we shall see who the true Lords are." Pharazôn had smiled at this, clearly imagining himself as the Lord of all Arda. The counselor knew just what to say to provoke the king. There was nothing Míriel could say to sway his mind anymore.

Too many misinterpreted the signs. They believed that the Valar were challenging them. Pharazôn said that these attacks on their sovereignty could not go unanswered. He used them to rally the people of Númenor behind his terrible cause. He manipulated the people's fear as easily as Sauron manipulated his fear. Most of the people of Númenor believed him, and the few that did not could not risk disagreeing publicly. There was no one else who could or would risk standing against the king and showing the land the true danger behind these signs. She was alone, and none would heed her warnings.

What were the signs telling her? Míriel knew in her heart that the Valar were trying to frighten them away from their current course of action. They were trying to prevent a war. Now, war was inevitable. Pharazôn had set himself against them, but he would soon find that he had been unwise in his choice of enemies. The Valar had created this land, and Míriel had learned as a child that those with the power to create also have the power to destroy. She did not know how their doom would come, but it would come if this battle continued. Even the mightiest army of men ever gathered could not stand against the Mighty Powers of Arda. If Númenor fought them, then Númenor would fall.

The fountains made trickling noises as the water sprayed forth from their spouts. The sound assaulted Míriel, growing until it was a roar. It was as if there were great sea waves surrounding her. She could almost feel them crashing into her, the heavy weight of the water surrounding her and crushing her. The air smelled salty and rotten, and she could see nothing but darkness, despite the lantern she still held before her.

She tried to run, desperate to escape the oppressive darkness. Then water began to pour down on her from above. At some point, the lantern slipped from her fingers, already extinguished by the pounding rain. Suddenly, it was as if she was being smothered. Her lungs burned for air and her limbs grew weary. Rushing down stone paved paths, Miriel felt her robe becoming soaked and heavy. The hail began to hurl itself down upon her, and she madly tried to escape its fury. She ran without thinking, stumbling in the darkness. At last, Miriel flung herself forward in despair.

Instead of falling to the ground, she slammed into stone. A wall loomed before her. The queen felt something jutting out of the wall and groped for it in the darkness. It was the handle to the door. Wrenching it open, she threw herself inside. The hall was not completely dark, but it was mostly covered in shadows. Míriel was wet and cold, but the spell had passed and she could breathe again. She gasped in air as she sank down onto the ground.

Behind her, lightning flashed through the sky. The storm had returned, growing even fiercer than it had been before. At last, she stood and went to shut the door against the rain and ice that poured in. She began to shake as the chill of her wet clothes ran through her. Slowly, Míriel wandered back to the royal quarters, finding a parlor with a large fireplace. She lit a fire and shed the soaked dressing gown. Laying the wet garment near the warm fireplace to dry, the queen stared into the flames.

"Fire bursts from the stone," she muttered to herself absently. As she said it, a sense of dread spread through her. "Fire from stone? Impossible." Míriel held her hands closer to the fire to warm them. "I am not afraid," she told herself. "I will not fear the rain, nor the hail, nor the lightning, for I am of the Faithful. I have nothing to fear. If it is a herald of doom, then let doom come." It was easy to say it, but not all her heart was in the words.

To comfort herself, she began to sing part of a song she remembered from her childhood in Andunië. It was a mournful song, sung in the tongue of the Elves that had once been friends of Númenor. Her voice was husky and quiet as she sang into the silence. "Lovely is Númenor. But my heart resteth not here forever; for here is ending, and there will be an end and the Fading, when all is counted and all numbered at last, but yet it will not be enough, not enough. What will the Father, O Father, give me in that day beyond the end when my Sun faileth?"

As a child, she had not understood the lyrics but had loved the haunting melody. Now, as she sang them softly in the darkness, their meaning was revealed to her. Yes, this land was beautiful, even through the darkness and the fall of its people. There were still things here that endured with grace and dignity, like the tiny shade plants. Yet it was not enough to keep her here, for she was meant to go beyond, as all Men were. She repeated the last lines with a slight smile. "What will the Father, O Father, give me in that day beyond the end when my Sun faileth?" Peace, she thought to herself. The sun will fail only to make way for a different kind of light.

"Your sun will soon fail," came a harsh voice from behind her. Míriel leapt up and spun to face her adversary. Sauron had entered silently, moving like a shadow along the edges of the room.

"I know what waits for me," she responded. "As well as I know what waits for you."

"Do you think that you will enter paradise and I will be destroyed by the Valar's vengeance?" Sauron spat at her. "No… You will go out into the dark, and I will remain. They cannot destroy me. I will go on, and you will fade away into the abyss."

"If you have come to debate theology, you are wasting your time." He nodded, acknowledging that she had a valid argument.

"I am here to speak with the king when he awakes. Yet the trail of tiny muddy footprints was intriguing. What was the Queen of Númenor doing outside in such a tempest?"

"Perhaps I should have been more careful," she replied, not answering his question. "The Valar's wrath is perilous, especially to those who defy them." Not long before, a storm had struck his temple. Its great silver dome had been torn apart by a bolt from the heavens, but Sauron had denied that this was any sign of power. He still stood in the temple, and challenged the Valar to strike him down. The lightning had struck him, but he had not been burnt. There were some who thought that this act made him as powerful as those who had sent the storm. More fools flocked around the deceitful Maia every day. Those that were not declared false and burned in the temple were usually conscripted into the army to defend their beliefs during the planned assault on the undying lands. The price for their loyalty to Sauron would be their lives.

"Lightning is nothing to an immortal," Sauron boasted. "It is a petty trick. The Valar have underestimated Númenor if they think a few bolts of lightning and clouds will overthrow the greatest ruler this land has ever had."

"You know the truth as well as I do, Sauron the Abhorred," Míriel said venomously. "You know that they are only heralds of doom."

"Ah, your beloved doom," the counselor sighed, moving closer to her. "Is it coming for you now? Will you welcome it with open arms, or will you draw back in fear when the moment comes? It is so easy for you pathetic Faithful to profess faith in Eru and say that you love death, that it is a gift. Yet every day I hear the Faithful plead for their lives when they are dragged to the altar of Melkor. You have heard them beg, have you not, Ar-Zimraphel?" He waited for a reaction, but she gave him none. He sneered and turned away from her. "For all your words, in the end, you are all the same."

She remembered standing upon the Meneltarma with the dagger in her hands. Yes, she was afraid then. Part of her was still afraid. Yet there was something else that was beginning to fill her now. The sense of doom and dread that had surrounded her lessened, and she closed her eyes. It was so faint, but it was there…

"What is it?" her enemy taunted. "Another dream? Another premonition, mighty queen? What doom does it foretell for you? Will you bleed upon the altar? Will you be consumed by the flames? Perhaps you will die by some cruel revenge of the Valar? What is it like, your majesty, to know that you are doomed to die? It is coming soon, that much you are sure of. Yes, soon… What then? Then it will all be darkness, the darkness that you pitiful humans fear so irrationally. Darkness and nothingness. Your pathetic faith is a sham, a ruse to make you the servants of the Valar. How are you so certain that death is not a bitter ending?"

Míriel's grey eyes snapped open, and they glittered like stars as she looked up at the Maia. "I can hear it. Even now, on the edges of waking and sleeping, it is there, calling me. The Music… I hear and I know." She smiled as she heard it, a peaceful feeling spreading through her. Sauron said nothing and would not meet her gaze. He stormed out of the room as swiftly as he had entered.

"Cling to your faith then, fool," he spat as he walked away. "In the end, we shall see who is right. I will watch as your faith fails and you crumble beneath the fear."

"You will be waiting a long time," Míriel muttered under her breath. "I fell to fear once, but I will not fall again." The queen knelt to collect her dressing gown. She put out the fire in the fireplace and made her way back to the royal bedchamber. The music had made her feel weary, and she knew that she must rest her body even if her mind could not sleep. As she moved, she felt the familiar pain in her knees and wrists. Yes, she was tired of this body, these endless battles of words and wills, the hatred, the suffering…

She opened the door to her chamber. The candle in the lamp had died down to a flickering speck of light amidst the darkness. Míriel looked at it for a few moments before blowing it out. She let the dressing gown rest on a chair and made her way to the bed. Pulling the coverlets over her for warmth, she tried to calm her mind. As she lay there in the dark, the sounds of the sea returned, but not the dread. She had chosen this darkness. It surrounded her, protecting her from the visions that always filled her with fear. At last, Míriel let herself rest.

The morning came swiftly, or so it seemed to Míriel. She did not know if she had slept, for dreams and waking both brought the sound of rushing water to her ears. Even the rhythm of the pounding rain and hail and the whistling wind had not been enough to drown out the phantom sounds that came to her. As morning approached, the noise had faded. All she could hear was the storm outside. A little light began to creep into the room, but it was very dim. The sky was still dark grey, angry clouds hanging over the Land of the Star.

There was a knock on the door, and Pharazôn stirred from sleep and sat up in bed. He looked nervous, as if he were troubled by his dreams the night before. "Something weighing on your conscience?" she asked in an innocent voice as she climbed out of bed. Her husband responded with a disdainful grunt and rubbed his eyes.

"I dreamed last night, but now I cannot remember it," he mumbled. He got up and went to put on a robe. As he walked across the room, he noticed the rather muddy, damp dressing gown lying in a puddle on the stone floor. "What happened here?"

"I went out for a walk last night and the weather was somewhat less than obliging." Míriel went over and picked up the nearly ruined dressing gown.

"It is not like you to destroy your things like this," Pharazôn remarked.

"Yes, something beautiful was destroyed by my carelessness last night. Perhaps it is a lesson that you should learn."

"I don't know what you're talking about." The king continued to his wardrobe and soon emerged with a robe wrapped around him. "This is my last morning here. For one morning, could you keep from making these foolish remarks of yours?" She nodded.

"Yes, they are foolish, for I know that you will not listen and still I persist. Have you ever wondered why?" As Míriel looked at him, she could clearly see that her words made him angry. He tried to subdue his frustration, but at last it overcame him and he began to speak rapidly.

"Of course I wonder why! Every day, I wonder what I have done to you to make you like this. I wonder what happened to the woman I married. Once you were like a star, shining above everything else, and now your light seems dull and faint. I still see in you a glimpse of the majesty you once commanded, the grace and dignity you once possessed… You have become a ghost, Míriel, mourning for something that was meant to be. You have been blinded by some senseless grief so that you cannot see what lies before you. All you speak of now is darkness from which there is no escape…"

"But there is an escape," she interrupted. "Do not go to Eldalondë. Do not make war on the Valar."

"You once said that courage is the duty of a king, that he must have the courage to do what is right for his people. I am doing this for the good of Númenor. I know you fear that the Valar will destroy us, but we shall defeat them before they can harm us." She turned away from him. Why did she try? It was useless.

"Just go." Her voice was quiet and without any trace of emotion. "Your trusted counselor is no doubt waiting to fill your ear with more of his excellent advice." She could hear him sigh and the rustle of fabric as he moved around to face her.

"Will you not come with me to Eldalondë, Zimraphel?" He looked into her eyes, and she could see it. There was fear there, and she realized that some part of him had realized the truth. Perhaps it had been a dream that had shown him, a dream that his mind had shut into some distant corner of his memory. Although he denied its presence, some small part of him knew: the part of him that was still decent and wise, the part of him that had died when Sauron descended upon the island.

"You know my answer."

"Then here we must part," he said slowly. His words hit her with an unexpected force. They were parting forever, and this would be the last time she would ever speak with him again. What should she say to him, before he rode away to claim the doom they had wrought together? As she stood there starting at him, she was filled with sorry and regret. Years of animosity and bitterness faded away, and she saw before her a man about to die.

"I am sorry," she said at last.

"So am I." Pharazôn took her hands in his. "I love you. I always have, and I always will." For a moment, she saw in him the man who sat by her bedside when she had lost their child. She saw in him the king who had wanted to defeat Sauron and save their people. She saw in him the remnants of the good man Amandil had known so many years ago. It shone through the evil that had overcome him, like a star struggling to shine amidst the clouds.

She found herself beginning to weep, and she could not find the words to say farewell. He had hurt her, he had taken from her everything she had loved, but he had also been a part of her life for so long now that she did not want to imagine what awaited him. She wished that she could save him from this doom, that she could save them all. But she could not, no matter how hard she tried.

"Please forgive me, Zimraphel," he said, wiping her tears away. This was more than a mere apology. In her heart, she knew that it was a desperate plea, the last wish of one who was about to go out into the darkness. It could not go unanswered. She turned away and went over to the coffer that held her jewels. From the box, she lifted the adamant swan he had given her so many years ago.

She pressed it into his hands. "I forgive you." As they stood here, at the end, she could not deny him the forgiveness he sought. He had hurt her, but she had hurt him as well. Through all the years, they had become both closer and more distant. She could not say goodbye now. It was too final. Instead, she remained silent. They stood there for a few moments that seemed like an eternity. Both of them understood now. They needed no words.

Tentatively, Pharazôn took a step backwards. He held her gaze, his face a mask of sorrow. "Farewell… Míriel." With that, he left her standing alone in their chamber. In her heart, she had relinquished him to the hands of fate. She had given the necklace back to him, ridding herself of the symbol of their marriage and his love for her. She was free of him at last, but it brought her no joy. He had chosen his path, and so their doom would fall. Míriel remained in her room, lost in her thoughts.

Hours later, she watched from the window as he rode out with his soldiers. The rain had stopped, but the wind remained. It tugged at his golden cape and his banner as he followed the road that led away from Armenelos. She watched him until she could no longer distinguish him from the men around him, until he was no more than a glittering point of light amidst the dark host that moved west.

Author's Note:

The song Miriel sings is taken from Tolkien's "The Lost Road and Other Writings." The next chapter will be the last in this story. It will be posted as soon as I am happy with it. Thank you to all my readers and reviewers for your helpful comments and especially for your patience!


	19. The Darkness Unescapable

Author's Note: Many apologies for the lateness of this post: I somehow managed to lose the disk it was on, and couldn't find it for a week. This is the final chapter, done after nearly a year of writing. Thanks to all my patient readers for all their helpful comments and support!

"The Darkness Unescapable" Númenor  
3319, Second Age

She woke from a deep sleep to find that light was beginning to creep into her room. Míriel smiled and buried her face against her pillow. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the visions the dreams had brought her. Her mother and father smiled down on her, radiant in their happiness and peace. And then there was Galisil. In his arms, she knew no fear. Their love had chased away the darkness of the night, and the moon had illuminated the room they were in with a silvery glow. For a time, she had known true bliss. Upon waking, she found that the serenity of her dreams remained with her. It gave her the strength to face this day.

Rising from her bed, she looked out the window. There were no clouds in the dusky sky, only a plume of smoke that came from the temple. The queen turned from the window, not able to look at the darkness that marred the perfect sky. She walked over to her wardrobe to dress herself. As soon as Pharazôn was gone, she had dismissed her attendants. She had let the grey streak through her hair once more and ceased to care what others thought of her. She had other concerns.

Without thinking, Míriel found herself taking out a white gown. Long ago she had worn this gown on the Meneltarma during the holy days. It was embroidered with luminescent white threat and tiny pearls, a pattern of leaves and flowers dancing across the fabric. Somehow, it felt right for this day. This day was different than all the others before it; she could feel it resonating through her.

Míriel felt a strange sense of anticipation. Something was about to happen. The tension was slowly growing with every passing moment. She dressed herself and left the chamber to see if she could see the sunrise. From her study, she looked upon the color-streaked sky. It was so red… "Will I ever see another sunrise?" she found herself muttering. It was impossible to tell with the storms that arose unexpectedly.

As she looked east, she thought of Elendil. She did not know if he had already set sail or if he was still waiting for a sign from his father. Wherever he was, her hope and prayers were with him. As she thought of him, memories of their last conversation played themselves in her mind. She had spoken of an ending then, of the doom of Númenor.

"Doom…" She spoke that single word, and it took on a new power. "Doom is coming." The serenity of her dreams ebbed a little, and doubt began to gnaw at her. Was it truly coming for her, for all of Númenor? "Is it coming?" she cried aloud. "Tell me if it is coming?"

The wind that had been blowing from the east suddenly ceased. Quietly, it started. The sound of the sea. In that hour, she knew. It was coming. There was nothing she could do to stop it. She could only pray. In her mind, the sea faded, and there was a deafening silence. In that moment, she knew what she must do. Míriel left her study, her heart beginning to beat faster and faster. Through the halls she passed, striding purposefully past servants and workers. Her guards caught up with her as she approached the staircase that led down to the main hall.

"Where are you going, your majesty?" one asked. "Will you not take your breakfast upstairs first?"

"I have no need for it." They looked upon her, but soon looked away. Yesterday, she had been the sad, broken queen who wandered through the halls of the palace days and night, speaking words of doom. Today she was changed. She had an aura of majesty about her, giving those who looked upon her the sense that she had risen above them. The queen seemed almost ethereal. She was eerily calm as she walked towards the doors.

Míriel did not answer their questions, but merely continued down the stairs. She was nearly to the exit hall when one of her guards dared to ask another question. "Where are we accompanying you?" She paused and turned to face them.

"I am following my own path. Go, and follow yours." They stared at her, fear beginning to set in. Her words had been like an order, but they did not understand. "Go!" she ordered again. "Go! I can no longer escape my fate. Neither can you." They backed away from her, for she had suddenly grown terrible and fey. As they cowered, she turned and left the palace of Armenelos and never looked back.

At the stables, she mounted the swiftest of horses. It would carry her away from this accursed place, to the Meneltarma. None questioned her, for they were all fearful. They could feel her desperation and the certainty within her. She rode slowly at first, passing through the streets of the city. When she passed the temple, she heard Sauron's voice coming from the inner depths of the darkened chambers.

"Do you think that you can save Númenor, foolish queen? You will find only death at the hands of Eru." She ignored him and urged her horse to go faster. The people stopped to watch her go, and they began to whisper amongst themselves fearfully.

"Where is she going?"

"Why does she flee?"

"What is happening to us?"

Míriel rode on, and when she reached the edge of the city, the horse broke out into a full gallop. They sped along the ancient road, racing some unknown force towards the holy mountain. A nagging voice kept telling her that she was too late, that this mad race for the holy mountain would accomplish nothing. Still she pressed on. She had to be absolved. She had to offer up one last prayer.

The hours passed by, but she knew neither hunger nor weariness. Even her horse did not tire. It was as if some higher power had given them strength, and they rushed on towards the mountain. It grew larger and larger on the horizon, rising before them. For a moment, the mountain seemed to shine with a terrible white light. Her fear grew, but she could not tear her eyes from it. On she rode, on towards doom.

They were close now, and the Meneltarma loomed above them. Suddenly, there was a silence. It was as if for a moment, all of Arda stood still. She could feel a rush of power pass into the world, and she could feel the tremor before it rocked the land. She sprung from her horse before it hit. Then it came: the ground shook violently beneath her feet, throwing both her and her horse to the ground. Soon the ground was still, and the deadly silence gave way to a deep rumbling. The horse climbed to its feet and fled towards east as fast as it could. As she watched it run, the wind began to blow.

"It is coming." Her eyes widened, and her heart pounded within her. Springing up from the ground, she broke out into a run. The ground continued to rumble, although not so wildly as it had before. The earth had been shaken to its foundations, of that she was sure. She could feel her doom drawing near. With every moment, it was coming closer.

Míriel reached the path that led up the mountain. It was steep and rocky, and she scrambled up as best she could. The wind tore at her gown and pushed against her furiously. Still she struggled on. "I stand here at the foot your holy mountain, Eru," she prayed fervently. "Hear my prayer! Smite the evil one in his temple! Bring it crashing down atop him and rend his soul from the form he has used to seduce your Children. Save this world from his evil. Please, Eru, save those that remain. Save Elendil. Let his ships come safely to Middle-earth. Give him the strength to renew the glory and grace of Men. Let his line continue and stand against the evil that besets us. Please, save the Faithful. Save us."

She went round a corner of the mountain and suddenly stopped, looking on with dread. The sound of rushing water grew louder as it approached. A wall of darkness rose in the distance. It was enormous, blotting out the western sky. Míriel gasped, unable to believe what she saw. A great wave towered over the Land of the Star, consuming it as it pressed onward. Its shadow reached towards her, blocking out all light as the sun sank behind it.

It rose over the green hills, over the beautiful land of Númenor. The mountain began to shake harder, knocking a few stones loose. The roar of the wave and the wind became almost deafening. Míriel could not move, she could only watch the wave draw near. She cried out in grief as she watched her land be consumed by the wave.

Her beloved Númenor… She loved every stone, every river, every tree. It had been in her heart since she was born, that her life existed to protect and care for this land and its people. Her people… They were not all evil. There were so many who were merely ignorant or fearful. They did not deserve to die. All that she loved was being devoured by the darkness.

The mountain beneath her gave a great shudder, and fire burst from the pinnacle. Míriel fell to the ground, unable to stand as the mountain shook furiously. The fire fell from the sky and landed around her. Its heat was unbearable, and she scrambled away from it. "No!" Her cries were lost amid the fury of the wind and the rushing wave. Her heart ached within her. She had not thought that it would end like this. She had not thought that she would die here, amid crumbling earth, fire sprung from stone, the howling wind, with the great dark wave towering over it all.

Míriel looked on the wave as it drew closer. Its roar had grown even louder, and she could see it tear through green pastures that spread out beyond the mountain. It was coming for her. The doom she had foreseen had come to claim her. As she stared into the oncoming darkness, a new strength seemed to enter her, and she drew herself up to her full height and stood to face the wave.

Tar-Míriel spread her arms, as if to welcome the wave. She stood proudly amidst the smoking lava of the mountain. She stood straight and did not falter, though the wind beat against her. She stood on the still rumbling earth and waited. The sea would be her ending. It had come to wash away all of her guilt and despair. It had come to set her free. So she stood and waited for it to come.

'I will die a daughter of Elros,' she thought to herself. 'I will not fear the darkness of Eru, for I will pass through it and thus come into the light.' The wave drew near and she could smell the salty scent of the sea. She bowed her head and shut her eyes. "Eru, I am in your hands."

The wave crashed around her and threw her back against the mountain. The roar of the wind was silenced and she knew nothing but the tug of the water. Then she felt herself being hurled around, twisting and turning in the water. Immediately, her body began to panic. She kicked and thrashed about wildly to reach the surface. Her lungs were burning for air. More than anything, she wanted to breathe. She wanted to live!

Even as she struggled, she began to hear it. It was an angelic melody that called to her. "You need not endure this world any longer," it seemed to say. "Be at peace…" All at once, images flashed through her mind.

She saw her mother smiling and holding her hand. She watched her father as he drew his last breaths. She saw Galisil standing beneath the trees on a foreign shore, safe from all harm. She watched nine ships be carried across the sea. She could see the chasm that swallowed Ar-Pharazôn and his army. She looked on as the temple of Sauron crumbled into the abyss and the Maia was torn from his fair form.

She stopped struggling. The weariness was lifted from her, and she felt a joy beyond any she had ever imagined. The waves would not steal her life from her. It was still hers to lay down freely. The darkness around her turned to light. Míriel let go, and raised her voice to join with the Music. 


End file.
